

PRESFNTKl) HY -'A $ 




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COMPLETE TF'DliXS 






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MMWMESTER 

SAMUEL JOHNSON &. SON. 



TFIE ENTIRE WORKS 

OF 

R0BP:RT BURNS; 

vriTH Ay 

ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE, 

AND 

A CRITICISM ON HIS WRITINGS. 

TO WHICH ARE PREFIXED, 

SOMB OBSERVATIONS ON THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION 

OF 

THE SCOTTISH PEASANTRY 

By JAMES CURRIE, M. D. 



THE FOUR VOLUMES COMPLETE IN ONB, 

WITH 

AN ENLARGED AND CORRECTED GLOSSASY. 



.' ,!,^^ Embellished with 
FOTTMBBS ItLTTBTRATTOirS FROM ORIGTS-AX DESIGKS BY yCBi, STSWAHJ. 



MANCHESTER: 

PRINTED AND PUBLISHED 

BY THOMAS JOHNSON, LIYESEY STREET. 

MDCCCXiVII. 



.-b^"^ 






Qffb 
MR, HUTGHB^N 



CAPTAIN GRAHAIVI MOORE, 

OF THE ROYAL NAVY. 



Wkes you were stationed on our coast about twelve years ago, you first re- 
commended to my particular notice the poems of the Ayrshire ploughman, whose 
works, published for the benefit of his widow and children, I now present to you. 
In a distant region of the world, whither the service of your country has carried 
jou, you will, I know, receive with kindness this proof of my regard; not perhaps 
•without some surprise on finding that I have been engaged in editing this 
work, not without some curiosity to know how I was qualified for such an 
undertaking. These points I will briefly explain. 

Having occasion to make an excursion to the county of Dumfries, in the sum- 
. mer of 1792, I had there an opportunity of seeing and conversing with Bums, 
It has been my fortune to know some men of high reputation in literature, as 
well as in public life, but never to meet any one who, in the course of a single 
interview, communicated to me so strong an impression of the force and versa- 
tility of his talents. After this I read the poems then published with greater in- 
terest and attention, and with a full conviction that, extraordinary as they are, 
they afford but an inadequate proof of the powers of their unfortunate author- 
Four years afterwards, Burns terminated his career. Among those whom 
the charms of genius had attached to him, was one with whom I have been 
bound in the ties of friendship, from early life — Mr John Syme of Ryedale. 
This gentleman, after the death of Burns, promoted with the utmost zeal a sub- 
scription for the support of the widow and children, to which their relief from 
immediate distress is to be ascribed; and, in conjunction with other friends of 
this virtuous and destitute family, he projected the publication of this work for 
tbeir benefit, by which the return of want might be prevented or prolonged. 

To this last undertaking, an editor and biographer was wanting, and Mr 
Syme's modesty opposed a barrier to his assuming an office for which he was, in 
other respects, peculiarly qualified. On this subject he consulted me ! and with 
the hope of surmounting his objections, I offered him my assistance, but in vain. 
Endeavours were used to procure an editor in other quarters, but without effect. 
The task was beset with considerable difficulties; and men of established reputa- 
tion naturally declined an undertaking, to the performance of which it was 
scarcely to be hoped that general approbation could be obtained, by any exertion 
of judgment or temper. 



iT DEDICATION. 

To such an office, mj place of residence, mj accustomed studies, and mj 
occupation, were certainly little suited ; but the partiality of Mr Syme thought 
me in other respects not unqualified; and his solicitations, joined to those of our 
excellent friend and relation Mrs Dunlop, and of other friends of the family of 
the poet, I have not been able to resist. To remove difficulties which wouli 
otherwise have been insurmountable, Mr Syme and Mr Gilbert Bums made a 
journey to Liverpool, where they explained and arranged the manuscripts, and 
arranged such as seemed worthy of the press. From this visit I derived a de« 
gree of pleasure which has compensated much of my labour. I had the satis- 
faction of renewing my personal intercourse with a much valued friend, and 
of forming an acquaintance with a man closely allied to Bums, in talents as weU 
as in blood, in whose future fortunes the friends of virtue will not, 1 trust, bi 
uninterested. 

The publication of this work has been delayed by obstacles which thest 
gentlemen could neither remove nor foresee, and which it would be tedious tj 
enumerate. At length the task is finished. If the part which I have taken 
shall serve the interest of the family, and receive the approbation of good men, 
I shall have my recompense. The errors into which I have fallen are not, I 
hope, very important: and they will be easily accounted for by those who 
know the circumstances under which this undertaking has been performed. 
Generous minds wUl receive the posthumous works of Bums with candour, and 
even partiality, as the remains of an unfortunate man of genius, published for 
the benefit of his family, as the stay of the widow, and thehope of the fatherless. 

To secure the suffrages of such minds, all topics are omitted in the writings, 
and avoided in the life of Bums, that have a tendency to awaken the animosity 
of party. In perusing the following work, no offence will be received, ex- 
cept by those to whom the natural erect aspect of genius is offensive ; characters 
that will scarcely be found among those who are educated to the profession of 
arms. Such men do not court situations of danger, nor tread in the paths of 
glory. They will not be found in your service, which in our own days, emulates 
on another element, the superior fame of the Macedonian phalanx, or of the 
Roman legion, and which has lately made the shores of Europe and of Africa, 
resound with the shouts of victory, from the Texel to the Tagus, and from the 
Tagus to the Nile ! 

The works of Burns will be received favourably by one who stands in the fore 
most rank of this noble service, and who deserves his station. On the land o" 
on the sea, I know no man more capable of judging of the character or of the 
writings of this original genius. Homer, and Snakspeare, and Ossian, caimot 
always occupy your leisure. This work may sometimes engage your atten- 
tion, while the steady breezes of the tropic swell your sails, and in another 
quarter of the earth, charm you with the strains of nature, or awake in your 
memory the scenes of your early days. Suffer me to hope that they may some- 
times recall to your mind the friend who addresses you, and who bids you most 
affectionatclj— adiet; I 

J, CURBJS. 
Liverpool, Ut May, 1800, 



CONTENTS. 



PREFATORY REMARKS. 



Ptti 
Effects of the legal estab- 
lishment of Parochial 
schools — of the church es- 
tablishment — of the ab- 
sence of poor laws — of the 
Scottish ninsic and nation- 
al songs — of the laws re- 
specting marriage and in- 
continence — Observations 
on the domestic and na- 
tional attachment of the 

LIFE OF BURNS. 

Narrative of his infancy and 
youth, by himself— Narra- 
tive on the same subject by 
his brother, and by Mr 
Murdoch of London, his 
teacher — Other partlcn- 



Pagt 
15th Jan. 1783, Bnrns's 
former teacher ; giving an 
account of his present 
studies and temper of mind 83 

6. Extracts from MSS. Ob- 
servations on various sub- 
jects .... 83 

7. T 
Wri 
mind ... 8 

8. To Mrs Dnnlop. Thanks 
for her notice. Praise of 

incestor, Sir William 
Wallace ... 8 

9. To Mrs Stewart of Stair, 
enclosing a poem on Miss 



( of ] 



while 



Mei 



dent in Ayrshire — History 
of Burns while resident in 
Edinburgh, including let- 
ters to the Editor from Mr 
Stewart, and Dr Adair — 
History of Burns while on 
the farm of Ellisland, in 
Dumfriesshire — History of 
Burns while resident in 
Dumfries— his last illness 
— death-and character— 
with general reflections 

" : respecting Burns, 

Criticism on the Works of 
Burns, including observe, 
tions on poetry in the 
Scottish dialect, and 
iome remarks on Scottish 
literature . - - 6 

Tributary Verses on the 
Death of Burns, by Mr 
Roscoe - - - 2 



1. To a Female Friend. 
Written about the year 
1780 . . . E 

7, To the same . . f 

3. To the same - - i 

4. To the same - I 
6. To Mr John Mardoch, 



22. Extract concerning the 
monument erected for Fer- 
gusson by onr poet . 9 

23. To :, accompanying 

the foregoing . . g 

24. Extract from , 8th 

March, 1/87. Good ad- 
vice .... 9 

25. To Mrs Dnnlop, 22d 
March, 1787. Respecting 
his prospects on leaving 
Edinburgh . - 9 

25. To the same, 15th 
April, 1787. On the same 



27. 



mbjec 



the Bard to visit Edin- 
burgh, and print a new 
' tion of his poems there 87 

11. From Sir John White- 
foord ... 87 

12. From the Rev. Mr Low. 
rie, 22d December, 1786. 

■ice to the Bard how to 
duct himself in Edin- 
burgh ... 88 

13. to Mr Chalmers, 27th 
December, 1786. Praise 
of Miss Burnet of Mon. 
boddo ... 88 

14. To theEarlofEglinton, 
Jan. 1787. Thanks for 
his patronage . - 88 

1."). To Mrs Dunlcp, 15th 
' . 1787. Account of 
situation in Edinburgh 89 

16. To Or Moore, 1/8/. 
Gratefnl acknowledgments 
of Dr M.'s notice of him 

lis letters to Mrs Dun* 
lop - ... 89 

17. From Dr Moore, 23d 
Jan. 1/87. In answer to 
the foregoing, and enclos. 
ing a sonnet on the Bard, 
by Miss Williams . 89 

18. To Dr Moore, 15th F«b. 

3 787 - - - - 90 

19. From Dr Moore, 28th 
February, 1787. Sends 
the Bard a present of his 

' View of Society and Man- 
ners," &c. . - 90 

20. To the Earl of Glen- 
cairn, 1787. Grateful ac- 
knowledgments of kind- 
ness - . . . 91 

21. T« the Earl of Bncban, 



Criti, 

29. To the Rev. Dr Blair, 
Sd-May. Written on leav- 
ing Edinburgh. Thanks 
for his kindness - 9 

30. From Dr Blair, 4th May, 
in replv to the preceding' 9 

31. From Dr Moore, 23d 
May. 17S7. Criticism and 
good advice • • 9 

32. From Mr John Hutchi- 
son - - . - 9 

33. To Mr Walker, at Blair 
of Athole, enclosing the 
"Humble petition cfBruar 
Water to the Duke of 
Athole" ... 9 

34. To Mr G. Burns, 17th 
Sept. Account of his tour 
through the Highlinds 9 

35. From Mr Ramsay of 
Ochtertj-re, 22d October, 
enclosing Latin inscrip- 
tions, with translations, 
and the tale of Omeron 
Cameron . . . g 

36. From Mr Walker . 9 

37. From Mr A M .10 

33. Mr Ramsav to the Rev. 

W. Young, 22'd Oct. intro- 
ducing our poet . 10 

39. Mr Ramsay to Dr Black- 
lock, 27th Oct. Anecdotes 
of Scottish Songs for our 
Poet - - - 10 

40. From Mr John Mur- 
doch, ill London, 2?th 
Oct. in answer to No 5 10 

41. From Mr , Oordua 



ri 

Page 
Ca»tle, 31st Oct. 1787, ac- 
knowledging a gong sent 
to lady Charlotte Gordon 101 

42. From the Rev. J. Skin- 
ner, 14th November, 1787. 
Some acconnt of Scottish 
Poems ... 102 

43. From Mrs , 30th 

Nov. enclosing Erse songs, 



102 



Krith thi 

44. To Dalrymple, Esq. 

Con^atnlation on his be- 
comiii? a poet. Ptj^ao «f 
Lord Glencairn - 103 

45. To Mrs Donlop, 2l8t 
Jan. 1788. Written on 
recovery from sickness 103 

46. Extract to the same, 
12th Feb. 1788, Defence 
of himself • • ] 

47. To the same, 7th Mar. 
1788. Who had heard 
that he had ridicnied her 104 

48. To Mr Cleghorn, 31st 
March, 1788, mentioning 
his having composed the 
first sunza of the Cheva- 
lier's Lament • • 104 

49. From Mr Cleghorn, 27 th 
April, in reply to the above. 
The Chevalier's Lament in 
fall, in a note - - 104 

50. to Mrs Danlop, 28th 
April, giving an acconnt of 
his prospects • - 105 

51. From the Rev, J. Skin- 
ner, 28th April, 1788, eq- 
closing two songs, one by 
himself, the other by a 
Bachan plonghman, the 
•ODgs printed at large 105 

S«. To Professor D.' Stew- 
art, 3d May. Thanks for 
his friendship - - 106 

53. Extract to Mrs Dnnlop, 
4th May. Remarks on 
Dryden's Virgil, and Pope's 
Odyssey . - - 107 

54. To the same, 27th May. 
General Reflections - 107 

55. To the same, at Mr Dun- 
lop's, Haddington, 13th 
June, 1788. Acconnt of 
his marriage - - 107 

66. To Mr P. Hill, with a 
present of a cheese - 108 

67. To Mrs Dnnlop, 2d An- 
gust, 1788. With lines on 

a hermitage . 108 

68. To the same, loth Ang. 
Farther account of bis 
Marriaga - - 109 

o9. To the same, 16th Aug. 
RefiectioQS on Human 
Life .... 110 

60. To R. Graham, Esq. of 
Fintry. A petition in verse 
for a sitoation in the Ex- 

HI 



CONTENTS. 

Page 

62. To Mrs Dnnlop, at 
Moreham Maines, 13th 
November - - 113 

63. To •»»«, 8th Nov. De- 
fence of the family of the 
Stewarts. Baseness of in> 
suiting fallen greatness 113 

64. To Mrs Dnnlop, 17th 
Dec. with the soldier's 
song — •• Go fetch to me a 



tofw 



114 



lady who had heard h 
been making a ballad oa 
her, enclosing that bal 
lad ... - 11 
36. To Sir John White- 
foord ... 11 

67. From Mr G. Bums, 1st 
Jan. 1789. Reflections 
suggested by the day 11 

68. To Mrs Dunlop, 1st 
Jan. Reflections suggested 
by the day • . 11 

69. To Dr Moore, 4th Jan. 
Acconnt of his situation 
and prospects 

70. To Bishop Geddes, 3d 
February. Account of his 
situation and prospects 11! 

71. From the Rev. P. Car- 
frae, 2d January, 1789. 
Requesting advice as to the 
publishing Mr Mylne's 

72. Tt» Mrs Dnnlop, 4th 
March. Reflections after 
a visit to Edinburgh 

73. To the Rev. P. Carfrae, 



116 



117 



118 



0.71 . 119 
74. To Dr Moore. Enclos- 

7'>. To Mr Hill. Apostrophe 
to Frugality - - 11 

76. To "Mrs Dnnlop. With 
a sketch of an epistle in 
verse to the Right Hon. C. 
J. Fox - . - 12 

77. To Mr Cunningham. 
With the first draught of 
the poem oa a Wounded 
Hare ... 12 

78. From Dr Gregory. Cri- 
ticism of the poem on a 
Wounded Hare - 12 

79. To MrM-AulayofDum. 
barton. Account of his 

10. To Mrs Dnnlop. Re- 
flections on Religion 122 

81. From Dr Moore. Good 
ad\-ice ... 123 

82. From Miss J. Little. A 
poetess in humble life, 
with a poem in praise of 
our Bard - . - 123 

83. From Mr . Some 

account of Fergnsson 124 

84. To Mr . In answer 124 

85. To Mrs Dunlop, Praise 
ofZelnco - - - 125 
6. From Dr Blacklock. An 
eoistle in verse 126 | 



Part 

87. To Dr BlacHoci. Poe- 
tical reply to the above 126 

88. To R, Graham, Esq. En- 
closing some electioneer- 
ing ballads - . 126 

89. To Mrs Dunlop. Seri- 
ous and interesting reflec- 
tions ... 127 

90. To Sir John Sinclair. 
Account of a book society 
amoje the farmers in 
Nithsdalfl . . 128 

91. T» Mr Gilbert Bums. 
With a prologue spoken in 
the Dumfries Theatre 129 

92. To Mrs Dnnlop. Some 
account of Falconer, au- 
thor of the Shipwreck 129 

93. From Mr Cunningham. 
Inquiries of our Bard 130 

94. To Mr Cunningham. In 
reply to the above - 131 

95. To Mr Hill. Order for 
books - - - 131 

96. To Mrs Dnnlop. Re- 
marks on the Lounger, 
and on the writings of Mr 
Mackenzie - - 132 

97. From Mr Cunningham. 
Account of the death of 
Miss Burnet of Moiiboddol33 

98. To Dr Monre. Thanks 
for a present of Zeluco 132i 

99. To Mrs Dunlop. Writ, 
ten under wounded pride 134 

100. To Mr Cunningham, 
8th August. Aspirations 
after independence • 134 

101. From Dr Blacklock, 
1st September, 1790. Poe- 
tical letter of Friendship 134 

102. Extract from Mr Cun- 
ningham, 14th October. 
Suggesting subjects for 
our poet's muse • 135 

103. To Mrs Dnnlop, Nov. 
1790. Congratulations on 
the birth of her grandsou 135 

104. To Mr Cunningham, 
23d Jan. 1791, with an 
elegy on Miss Burnet of 
Monboddo • - 135 

105 To Mr Hill, 17th Jan. 
Indignant Apostrophe to 
Poverty - - . 136 

106. From A. F. Tytler, 
Esq. 12th March, Criti- 
cism on Tam o' Shanter 136 

107. To A. F. Tytler, Esq. 

in reply to the above 137 

108. To Mrs Dnnlop, 7th 
February, 1791. Enclos- 
ing his elegy on Miss Bur- 

137 



tof a 



r-box 



110. To Mrs Graham of Fin- 
try, enclosing "Queen 
Mary's Lament" - 13 

111. From the Rev. G. 
Baird, 8th February. 1781, 
requesting assiitaace in 



Pagt 
pablishin^; the poems of 
Michael Brnca - 138 

112. To the Rev. G. Baird, 



IK 



139 



Febrnary, l791, enclosing 
Tarn o' Shanter, &c. ] 

114. From Dr iNJoore, 29th 
March, with remarks on 
Tarn o' Shanter, &c. 1 

115. To the Rev. A. Alison, 
14th Feb. acknowledging 
his present of the " Essays 
on the principles of Taste," 
with remarks on the book 140 

116. To Mr Cunningham, 
12th March, with a Jaco- 
bite song, &c. - - 141 

117. To Mrs Dnnlop, Uth 
April, Comparison be- 
tween female attractions 

in high and hnmble life 141 

118. To Mr Cunningham, 
11th Jnne, requesting his 
interest for an oppressed 






142 



119. From the Earl of Bnch. 
an, 17th June, 1791, invit- 
ing over our Bard to the 
coronation of the bust of 
Thomson on Ednam hill 142 

120. To the Earl of Buchan, 

in reply - - - 1|2 

121. From the Earl of Bnch- 
an. 16th Sepu 1671, pro- 
posing a subject for our 
Poefsmuse - - 143 

122. To Lady E. Cunning, 
ham, enclosing "The La- 
ment for James, Earl of 



124. From Sir John White, 
foord, 16th Oct. Thanks 
for " The lament on James, 
Earl of Glencairn " . 14 

125. From A, F. Tytler, 
Esq. 27th November. 1791, 
Criticism on the Whistle 
and the Lament • 14 

126. To Miss Davies. Apo- 
logy for neglecting her 
commands — moral reflec- 
tions ... 14 

127. To Mrs Dnnlop, 17th 
December, enclosing " The 
song of Death" . 14 

128. To Mrs Dnnlop, 5th 
J.-5inuary, 1792, acknow- 
ledging the present of 

ImI'to Mr William Smel- 
lie, 22dJannary, introduc- 
ing Mrs Riddel . 146 

130. To Mr W. Nicol, 20th 
February. Ironical thanks 
for advice - - 146 

131. To Mr Cunningham, 
3d March, 1792. Commis- 
sions his arms to be cut on 

ft seal^morat raflectioas 147 



146 



CONTENTS. 

Pagi 

132. To Mrs Dnnlop, 22d 
Angust. Acconnt of his 

meeting with Miss L 

B , and enclosing a 

song on her - - 147 

133. To Mr Cunningham, 
10th Sept. Wild Apos- 
trophe to a Spirit 1 148 

134. To Mrs Dunlop, 24th 
September. Account of 
his family - - If" 

135. To Mrs Dnnlop. Let- 
f condolence under 



afflic 



150 



To Mrs Dnnlop, 6th 
December, 1792, with a 
poem entitled, "The 
Rights of Woman * 150 

137. To Miss B of 

York, 21si March, 1793. 
Letter of Friendship 151 

138. To Miss C , Aug. 

1793. Character and tem- 
perament of a poet - 152 

139. To John M'Mnrdo, 
Esq. December, 1793. Re- 
paying money - 152 

140. ToMissB .advising 

her what play to bespeak 

at the Dumfries Theatre 153 

141. To a Lady in favour of 

a Player's Benefit - 153 

142. Extract to Mr , 

1794. On his prospects 

in the Excise - • 153 

143. To Mrs R . 153 

144. To the same. De- 
scribes his melancholy 
feelings ... 154 

145. To the same, lending 
Werter - - - 154 

146. To the same, on a re- 
of interrnpted friend- 



ship 



154 



To the same, o 
iporary estrangement 154 

148. To John Syme, Esq. 
Reflections on the happi- 
ness of Mr O - 154 

149. To Miss , request- 

retnrn of MSS. 
deceased friend 155 

150. To Mr Cunningham, 
25th Febrnary. 1794. Mel- 
ancholy reflections — cheer- 
ing prospects of a happier 
world - . . 155 

151. To MrsR . Snp- 

osed to be written from 
'The dead to the living" 156 

152. To Mrs Dnnlop, 15th 
December, 1795. Reflec- 
tions on the situation of 
his family, if he should 
die — praise of the poem 
entitled "The Tax" 156 

153. To the same, in Lon- 
don, 20th December, 1795 157 

154. To Mrs R , 20th 

January, 1796. Thanks 
for the travels of Anachar- 
sis - - - - 158 

155 To Mrs Dnnlop, 31 s« 



JannaiT, 1796. Acconnt 
of the Death of his daugh- 
ter, and of his own ill 
health - - - 138 

156. To Mrs R , 4th 

Jnne, 1796. Apology for 
not going to the birth- 
night assembly - 153 

157. To Mr Cunningham, 
7th July, 1796. Acconnt 
of his ilJness and of his 
poverty — anticipation of 
his death ... 159 

158- To Mrs Burns. Sea- 
bathing affords little re- 
lief - - . - 159 

159. To Mrs Dnnlop, 12th 
July, 1796. Last farewell 159 

POEMS. 

The twa dogs : a tale - 1 63 
Scotch Drink - . 165 
The author's earnest cry and 
prayer to the Scotch repre- 
sentatives in the House of 
Commons - - IfiS 

The Holy Fair - - 163 
Death and Dr Hornbook 170 
1 he Brigs of Ayr - 172 

The Ordination • 174 

The Calf . - - 17S 
Address to the Deil . 176 
The death and dying words 
-' " Mailie - 177 

ilie's Elegy . 177 
ToJ. S»«* - - 17S 

A Dream ... 179 
The Vision - .180 

Address to the Unco Guid, 

he Rigidly Righteous 183 
Tam Samson's Elegy 184 

Halloween - . 185 

The An Id Farmer's New- 
year Morning Salutation 
to his Auld Mare Maggie 188 
To a Mouse - - 183 
A Winter Night - 188 

Epistle to Davie, a Brother 

Poet .. - . 190 
The Lament - . 191 
Despondency: an Ode 192 
Winter ; A Dirge - 193 
The Cotter's Saturday 

Night ... 19 
Man was made to Mourn : 
A Dirge ... 195 
A Prayer in the Prospect of 
Death . . - I 
Stanzas on the same occa- 
sion ... 
Verses left at s 

House ... 197 
The First Psalm - 197 

A Prayer - . - 197 
The first six verses of the 

ieth Psalm - 197 
To a Mountain Daisie 198 

To Ruin . - - 19i 
To Miss L , with Beat- 
tie's Poems, for a New- 
year's Gift - . 198 
Epistle to a Yonng Friend IW 



. Friend's 



Till 

Page 
On a Scotch Bard gone to 
the West Indies - 1 

To a Haggis - - 5 

A Dedication to G 

H , Esq. . i 

To a Lonse, on seeing one 
on a Lady's BoaneE *t 
Church , . . 5 

Address to Edinburgh 5 

Epistle to J. Lapraiic, an 
old Scottish Bard - 2 

To the same - - 2 

Epistle to W. S , Ochil- 

tree .... 2 

Epistle to J. R , enclos- 
ing some Poems • 2 

John Barleycorn i A Bal- 
lad .... 2 

A Fragment, 'When Guild- 
ford good our pilot stood,'2 

Song, ■ It was upon a Lam- 
mas Night' - . 2 

Song, ' Now westlin winds, 
and slanght'ring guns,' 2 

Song, ' Behind yon hills 
where Lngar flows,' - 2 

Green grows the Rashes : A 
Fragment - • 2 

Song, ' Again rejoicing Na- 
ture sees ' . - 2 

Song, 'The gloomy Night 
is gathering fast' - 2 

Song, ' From thee, Eiiza, 1 
must go' - - 210 

The Farewell, to the Breth- 
ren of St James's Lodge, 
Tarboltou . - 21 

Song, ' No Churchman am 
If or to rail and to write '21 

Written on Friar's Carse 
Hermitage - - 21 

Ode to the Memory of Mrs 
, of . - 21 

Elegy on Captain Matthew 
Henderson - - 2i 

Lament of Mary Queen of 
Scots ... 21 

To Robert Graham, Esq. of 
Fintry - . - 21 

Lament for James, Earl of 
Glencairn - - 21 

Lines sent to Sir John 
Whitefoord, wiih the fore- 
going P 



On the death of John 
M'Leod, F.sq. . - 21 
Humble Petition of Bruar 
Water ... 25 
On Scaring some Water 

Fowl - . - 525 

Written at the Inn in Tay- 

month - - 22 

Written at the Fall of 

Fyers - - . 22 

On the Birth of a Posthu- 
mous Child - - 22 
The Whistle - - 22 
Second Epistle to Davie, a 

Brother Poet . - 22 
On my Early Days - 22 
Song, * In Maachline there 
dwells six proper young 
Belles' - - - 22 
On the Death of Sir James 

Hunter Blair - - 22 
Written on the blank leaf 
of a copy of the Poems 
presented to an old Sweet- 
heart then married . 22 
The Jolly Beggars : A Can- 
tata ... 22 
The Kirk's Alarm: A Sa- 
22 
Herds - . 22 
The Henpecked Husband 23' 
"' ^. the year 1778 ^ 23< 
\'erses written on the Win- 
dow of the Inn at Carron 23( 
Lines delivered by Burns on 

his Ueath-bed . . 231 
Lines delivered by Burns at 
a Meeting of the Dumfries- 



Pagt 

Written on Friars - Carse 

Hermitage, on Nithside 109 
Epistle to R. Graham, Esq.lH 
On seeing a Wouuded Harel21 
To Dr Bfacklock - 126 

Prologue - • - 129 
Elegy on the late Miss Bur- 
net of Mouboddo - 135 
The Rights of Woman 151 

Address, spoken by Miss 
Fontenelle - - 157 

INDEX TO THE POETRY, 



Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond 

adieni ... 211 
dmiring Nature in her 
viidest grace . . 221 
Adown winding Nith I did 

wander ... 274 
Again rejoicing Nature sees 209 
Again the silent wheels of 

ume . . - 193 

A gnid New-year I wish thee, 

Maggie - - . 188 
Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy 



a seeing £ 



217 



ter: A Tale 5 
wonnded Hare 
v'had Shot at '< 

Address to the Shade 
Thomson 
EpiUph on a celebrated 

Ruling Elder - - 21S 
■ on a noisy Polemic 218 

on Wee Johnny 218 

for the Author's Fa- 
ther .... 218 

for R. A. Esq. 218 

forG. H. Esq. 218 

A Bard's Epitaph . 218 
On Captain Grose's Pere- 
grinations . - 218 
On Miss Cruikshanks 219 
Bong, 'Anna, thy charms 
By bosom fire,' • 219 



230 
A Vision - - - 241 
Address to W. Tytler, Esq. 242 
To a Gentleman who had 
sent a Newspaper and of- 
fered to continue it . 243 
On Pastoral poetry . 243 
Sketch.— New-year's day 244 
On Mr William Smellie 245 
On the Death of Mr Riddel 243 
Inscription for an altar to 
Independence . . 245 
Monody on a Lady famed 

for her capriee • 245 

Answer to a Snr\-eyor's 
mandate . - - 246 

Impromptu on Mrs 's 

Birth-day - - 247 

To Miss Jessy L 247 

Ei-.empore to Mr S e 247 

Dumfries volunteers - 248 
To Mr Mitchell - 248 

To a Gentleman whom he 
had offended - - 248 
On Life, addressed to Col. 

De Peyster - - 248 
Address to the Tooth-ache 249 
To R. Graham, Esq. on re- 



All hail ! inexorable lord 
Among the heathy hills and 

ragged woods - . i. 
Ance mair I hail thee, thou 

gloomy December - 2J 
An' O for ane and twenty. 

Tarn - - - 22 

An honest man here lies at 

rest . - - 2S 

Anna, thy charms my bo- 

-)mfire . . - 21 

rose.bud by my early 

alk ... 23 

down the burn they took 

1 stood by yon roofless 
>wer ... 24 

As Mailie and her lambs 

thegither - - 17 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' 

beauty's alarms - 24 

A' ve wha live by soups o' 

dr'ink - . - 19 
Beauteous rose-bud, young 

and gay ... 21 
Behind yon hills where Lu- 

gar flows - . - 20 
Behold the hour, the boat 



262 
198 



ing a favoi 



Epitaph on a Friend 
Grace before Dinner 
On Seusibilit}-, to 

Dunlop . - 
3n taking leave at a place 

in (he Higblaiida • S 



Mrs 



Elythe, blythe and merry 

was she ... 23 
Blythe hae I been on you 

hill - . . - . 26 
Bonnie wee thing, cannie 

wee thing - - 23 

But lately seen in gladsome 

green - - - 29 
By Allan stream I chanced 



Pagt 

Cutt thoB leave me thus, 

my Katy ... 
Ca' theyowes to the knowes 285 
Clarinda, mi stress of my 

•ovk ... 233 

Come let me take thee to 

my breast - - 274 

Contented wi' little and 

canty wi' mair - 294 

Cnri'd be the man, the 

poorest «-retch in life 230 
Dear S^ , the sleest, pan- 

kie thief - - . 178 
Deluded swain, the pleasure 281 
Does hanghty Gau invasion 

threat - - - 248 
Duncan Gray came here to 

woo .... 260 
Dweller in yon dungeon 

dark • - - 212 

Edinal Scotia's darling 

seat .... 202 
f xpect na, Sir, in this nar- 

ration ... 200 
Fairest maid on Devon 

banks . • • 304 
Fair fa* your honest, lonsie 

face .... 200 
Farewell thon stream that 

winding flows - . 268 
Farewell thon fair day, thou 

green earth, and ye skies 50 
Fate gave the word, the ar- 
row sped ... 240 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, 

among thy green braes 239 
For lords, or kings I dinna 

Forlorn, my love, no com- 



fort n 



301 



Friend of the Poet, tried 

and leal ... 24S 
FroB thee, Eliza, I must go 210 
Gane is the day, and mirk's 

the night ... 236 
Go fetch to me a pint o' 

wine ... 114 

Green grow the rashes, O 209 
Gnid morning to yonr Ma. 

jesty ... 179 

Had I a cave on some wild 

distant shore • • 273 
Hail, Poesy! thou Nymph 

reserved ... 243 
Ha! whare yo gann, ye 

crowlin ferlie . . 201 
Has anld K seen 

the Deil ... 184 
Hear, Land o' Cakes, and 

brither Scots • . 218 
Here awa, there awa, wan- 
dering Willie . 263 
The same altered _ - 264 
Here Souter ■ - in death 

does sleep • . 218 

He who of R — k-n sang, lies 

• tiff and dead . • 230 
Here is the glen, and here 

the bower . - 284 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e 

dear - . - 304 

Here, where the Scottish 

Mass immor*) 'ives 284 



CONTENTS. 

Page 
How can my poor heart be 

glad . . - S 

How cold is that bosom 

which folly once fired 2 
How crnel are the parents 299 
How long and dreary is the 

night - . - 289 

How pleasant the banks of 

the clear-winding Devon 41 
Hnsband, husband, cease 

yonr strife - - 233 

I call no goddess to inspire 

my strains . . 250 

I gaed a waefn' gate yestreen 233 
I gat yonr letter, winsome 

Willie ... 204 
I hae a wife o' mine ain 45 
I lang hae thought, my 

yonthftt' friend . 199 

I mind it weel, in early 

date - - . 223 

I'm three times donbly o'er 

yonr debtor . . ib. 

In Manchline there dwells 

six proper yonng belles 224 
In simmer when the hay was 

mawm ... 237 
Inhuman man! curse on thy 

barbarous art . - 217 
Instead of a song, boys, I'll 

give yon a toast . 230 

I sing of a whistle, a whistle 

of worth ... 222 
Is there a whim-inspired 



fool 



218 



Is there, for honest poverty 296 

It was the charming month 
of May - . . 291 

It was upon a Lammas 
night . - . 203 

Jockey's ta'en the parting 
kiss ... 249 

J«hn Anderson my jo, John 235 

Keen blaws the wisd o'er 
Donnocht head . 288 

Ken you ought o' Captain 
Grose ... 250 

Kilmarnock wabsters, fidge 
an' claw ... 174 

Kind Sir, I've read your 
paper through - - 243 
Lnow thon, O stranger to 
the fame - . - 218 

Lament in rhyme, lament in 
prose ... 177 

lassie wi'thelintwhite locks 291 

Last May a braw wooer cam 
down the lang glen . 302 

Late cri ppled of an arm, and 
now a leg . . 214 

Let me wander where I will 282 
iet not a woman e'er com- 
plain ... 289 

Let other poets raise a fra- 

165 



breeze* 

Louis, what reck I by thee 240 
Mark yonder pomp of costly 

fashion ... 299 
Maxwell, if merit here you 



Lx 



232 



My Chloris, mark how green 
the groves . 290 

My cnrse upon ycor venom'd 
stang - - _ - 249 

My heart is a-breakiug, dear 
tittie - - 235 

My heart is sair, I darena 
tell - - . . 240 

My honoured Colonel, deep 
I feel - - - 248 

My lord, I know your noble 
ear - . - . 220 

My loved, my honour'd 
much respecteJ friend 193 

My Peggy's face, my Peg- 
gy's form . . 250 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'ei 



No churchman am I for t 



24 

211 

No more of yonr guests, be 

they titled or not - 247 
No more, ye warblers of the 

wood, no more • 245 

Now in her green mantle 

blythe nature arrays 295 

Now Nature hangs her man- 
tle green - - - 213 
Now simmer blinks on 

flowery braes . . 231 
Now spring has clad the 

grove in green • 300 

Now rosy May comes in wi' 

flowers . - 275 

Now westlin' winds and 

slanght'ring guns > 208 
O a' ye pious godly flocks 229 
O bonny was yon rosy 

brier ... 301 

O cam ye here the fight to 

shun ... 244 

O condescend, dear charm- 
ing maid • • 282 
O death! thon tyrant fell 

and bloody • • 212 
O gin my love were yon red 

rose - - - 269 

Of a' the airts the wind can 

blaw ... 234 

O had the malt thy strength 

of mind - * * . 248 
Oh open the door, some pity 

to show ... 263 
O ken ye what Meg o' the 

Mill has gotten - 26S 

O lassie art thon sleeping 



yet 



29r 



O leeze me on my soinning 

wheel . - - 23r 

O leeze meonmyweething 259 
Old Winter with his frosty 

beard . . ■ 247 
O Logan, sweetly didst thou 

glidt . - - 269 

O love will ventnre in where 

it darena weel be seen 233 
O Mary, at thy window be 263 
O May, thy morn was ne'er 

sae sweet - . ' . 241 

O mirk, mirk is this mid- 
Ighthonr - - 262 



Pagt 
O maekle thinki my love o' 

mybeancy • • 236 

O my luve'i like a red red 

rose • • . 241 

Once fondly loved and still 

remember'd dear - 224 
O poortitb caald, and 



s love 



260 



CONTENTS. 

Sleep'st thoa, or wakest 
thou, faireji creature 2 

Slon spreads the gloom my 
sonl desires - - 2 

Some books are lies fme end 
to end 

ly story's 



Stop, passenger! 
brief 

y charmer, c 



213 



O Philly. happy be that day 293 Stay, i 

Oppress'd with grief, op- leave 

pressed with care • 192 Stay, my Willie— yet believe 
Oro ■ ■ ' '■■-' 



5 roDgb, rnde, reidy-witted 



Whi 



Orthodor, orthodi 

believe in John Ki 
O saw ye bonny Lesly 258 

O saw ye my dear, my 

Phely ... 5 
O stay, sweet warbling 

wotidlark, stay • i 

O teli ui me o' Nvind and rain297 
O this is DO my aiu lassie S 
O Thon dread Power who 

reiga'si above - • 1 
O Thon Great Being, what 

thou art • 

O Thon pale orb, that silent 

shines ... 191 
O Thoa, the first, the great- 

O Thon, unknown, Almigh- 
ty Cause ... 1 
O Thou! whatever tit'.e suit 
thee ... 1 

O Thon who kindly dnst 

provide . . - 250 
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day 233 
O wat ye wha's in yon town 24 1 
O wha is she that lo'es me 249 
O were I on Parnassus' hill 234 
O were my love yon lili 



204 Sueams that glide in orient 
Swae: fa's the eve on Craigie- 



['11 < 



fail 
O whistle and 

you my lad . - 273 

A variation in the chorus 3J0 
O Wiliie brew'd a peck o' 

maut ... 234 

O wert thoa in the cauld 

blast ... 247 

O ye wha are sae guid your- 

sel .... 183 
O ye whose cheek the tear of 

pity stains - - 218 

Ilaving winds around her 

blowing ... 232 
Revered defender of beaute- 
ous Smart - - 242 
Right Sir! your text I'll 

prove it true . • 175 
Sid thy tale, thou idle page 219 
Sae flaxen were her ringlets 166 
Scots, wha hae ni' Wallace 

bled ... 279 

Sensibility how charming 250 
She is a winsome wee thing 258 
She's fair and fause that 

causes my smart • 239 
Should auld acquaintance 

be forgot . . 278 

Sing on, sweet thrash, upon 

thy leafless bough . 247 
Sir, as your mandate did 
, MSI . . • 346 



Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' 

meikie love . - 22 
The Catrine woods were 

yellow seen . - 23 
Tne day returns, my bosom 

burns ... 23 
The friend whom wild from 

wisdom-sway -_ . 24 
The gloomy night is gath'r. 

ing fast ... 210 
The hunter loe's the mom- 



P»g$ 
Thoa hatt left me ever, 

Jamie - . - 27i 
Thoa of aa independent 

mind ... 24^ 

Thou sweetest miestrel of 

the grove . . 28? 

Thou whom chance may 

hither lead . . 211 
Thon, who thy honour as 

thy God reverest . 215 
'Tis friendship's pledge, my 

young fair friend - 301 

to Crochallan came 243 

'Twas e'en, the dewy fields 

were greea . - 31 

'Twas in that pkce o' Scot- 



land's isle 
Tiue-hearted was he, the sad 
the Yarrow 2 

"Tdrn again, thon fairEiiia2 
bunnie blua 



Upn: 



Sunday 



night, 
, he^ tc 



185 
230 



Thei 



224 



grove 



;t myrtle 
eckon 298 



let toreigii landi 
The lazy mist h 

the brow of the 
The lovely lass o' Inverness 240 
The man, in life, wherever 

placed ... 1 
'^' weeps — here 



The s 



seps 



218 



pie Bard, rough at 
tne rustic plough . Ifz 

Tl'.e small birds rejoice in 
the green leaves returning 104 

The rmiling spring conies 



We 

your warks 
Wee, modest, cnmsoo-tip- 

ped flower . - 198 

Wee, s'eekit, cow'rin, tim- 

'rous beastie .- 189 

What can a young lassie, 

what shall a young lassie 238 
When biting Boreas, fel 

and doure - . If 9 

When chapman billies leave 

the street . - 215 

IVhen chill November's 

surly blast ■- . 195 
W'hen Death's dark stream 

I t( 



n rejoi 



240 



The sun had closed the 

winter day - - 18 

The Thames flows proudly 

to the sea - - 23 

The wind blew hollow frae 

the hilii . - - 21 
The wintry west extends his 

blast - - - 19 

There's add Rob Morris 



["here was once a day, but 
old Time was then yonng 242 
There were three kings into 
the east . - - 207 

They snoOi me sair, and 
hand me down - 237 

Thickest night o'erhangs 
my dwelling . • 23 

Thine am I, my faithful 
fair .... 28 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy 
fair .... 24 



When Gnilford good ( 

pilot stood - - i 
When lyart leaves bestrew 



251 



When wild war's deadly 
blast was blawn . 26 

Where are the joys I hae 

: in the morning 27 

samewtihan additional 

iza . - . 2S 

re braving angry win- 



Wher 



:othe 



2-^ 
^Vtiile briers an' woodbines 

budding green . 20i 

While lar,.s with little wing 2T 
While new-ca'd kye rout at 

stake - - 203 

Waile virgin Spring, bv 

Eden's flood . . '2!? 
While winds frae aff Ben 

Lomond b'.aw • • ISl 
Whoe'er thon art, O reader, 

know . . . 214 

W'hy am I loath to leave this 

earthly scene • - 19S 
Why, why tell thy lover 3'jJ 
Why, yetenaauof the lake 220 



Willie Waatie dwalt oa 

Tweed . - - 238 
Will ye go to the Indies, 

my Mary - - 257 

Wilt thoa be my dearie 239 
The same ... 283 
With mnsiag, deep, aston- 

ish'd stare - • 182 

Ye banks, and braes, &c. 238 
Ye banks and braes o' 

bonny Doon - - 238 
Ye Irish lorda . 



1. Mr Thomson to Mr 
Bnrns. 1792. Desiring the 
fiard ti i'uruis'i verses for 
some of the Scoc:ish airs, 
and to revise former songs 25 

2. aJr B. to Mr T. Promis- 
ing assistance - - 25 

3. Mr T. to Mr B. With 
some tnnes - - 25 

4. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
'The Lee Rig," and 'Will 
ye go to the Indies, my 
Mar/ ... 25 

5. Mr B. to Mr T. With 

• My wife's a winsome wea 
thing,' and ' saw ye 
bonny LesleN-* - 23 

6. Mr B. to Mr T With 

• Highland Marv' - 25: 

7. Mr T. to Mr B'. Thanks 
and critical obser\-ations 25; 

8. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
an additional stanza ' I'he 
lee Riff' ... 251 

9. Mr B to Mr T. With 
'Auld Rob Morris' and 

Dnncan Gray' - 25( 

10. Mr B. to Sir T. With 
•O Poor;ith Cauld.' &C. 
and • Galla Water' - 2Gl 

11. MrT, to Mr B. Jan. 
1793. Desiring anecdotes 
on the origin of particular 
snugs. T>tler of Wood- 
honselee — Pleyel — sends 
P. Pindar's ' Lord Gre- 
gory.' Postscript from the 
"Hon. A. Erskine . 26 

12. Mr B. to Mr T. Has 
Mr Tytler's anecdotes, and 
means to give his own — 
sends his own ' Lord Gre- 
gory' ... 26; 

\3. Mr B. to Mr T. With 



CONTENTS. 

Page 

19. Mr B. to MrT. Voice 
of Coili— criticism— Ori- 
gin of 'The Lass o' Pa- 
tie's Mill' . - 2 

20. Mr T. to Mr B. . 2 

21. Mr B. to Mr T. Sim. 
plicity requisite in a soii» 
— one poet should not 
mangle the works of ano- 



ther 



257 



' Mary Moi 



263 



J4. Mr B to Mr T. With 
•Wandering Wi'.iie' 263 

15. Mr B. to Mr T. With 

• Open the door to rae, Oh' 263 

16. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
'Jessie' - - , 264 

17. MrT. to Mr B. With 
a listof songs, and «Wan- 
derip» Wxiiie' altered 264 

18. Mr B. to MrT. -When 
wild war's,' Stc. and ' Meg 

•' tb« Mill' • . 265 



22. Mr B. to Mr T. « Fare- 
well, thon stream that 
winding flows'— Wishes 
that the national music 
may preserve its native 
features • - - 26 

23. Mr T. to Mr B. Thanks 
and obser\'ations - 26 

24. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
' Blythe hae I been on yon 

hill' - - - 25; 

25. MrB. to MrT. With 

♦ O Logan, sweetly didst 
thon glide' — 'O gin my 
love,' &c. - - 26; 

25. Mr T. to Mr B, En- 
closing a note— Thanks 271 

27. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
' There was a lass and she 
was fair' - - 27l 

28. Mr B. to Mr T. Hurt 
at the idea of pecuniary 
recompense — Remarks on 
son-s ... 27 

29. Mr T. to Mr B. Musi- 
cal expression . 27 

30. Mr B. to Mr T. For 
Mr Clarke - - 27; 

31. MrB. to MrT. With 

' Phiilis the fair* . 27; 

32. Mr T. to Mr B. Mr 
Alian — Dra^ving from 
'John Anderson mv Jo' 27! 

33. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
' Had I a cave,' Sec. Some 
airs common to Scotland 
and Ireland - - 27£ 

34. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
' By All.tn stream 1 
chanced to rove' - 27; 

35. Mr B. to Mr T. Vv'ith 

• Whistle and I'll coir.e to 
yoa, my lad,' and 'Awa 
wi' your belles and your 
beauties' - - 27' 

36. Mr B. to MrT. With 
' Come let me take thee to 
my breast* - - 27^ 

37. Mr B. to Mr T. ' Dain- 
tie Davie' - - 271 

38. Mr T. to Mr B. De- 
lighted with the produc- 
tions of Burns' muse 27J 

39. MrB. to MrT. Wnh 
' Bruce to his troops at 
Bannockburn' - 27^ 

40. Mr B. to Mr T. Wth 
' Behold the hour, the boat 
arrives' - - - 27( 

41. Mr T. to Mr B. Ob- 
servations on 'Bruce to 
his troops' - - 27< 

42. Mr B. to Mr T. Re- 



Pagt 
marks on songs in MrT.'s 
list— His own method of 
forming a song — 'Thoa 
hast left me ever, Jamie'— 
' Where are the joys 1 has 
met in the morning' — 
« anid langsvne' • 277 

43. MrB. to' MrT. Wnh 
a variation of * Bannock- 
burn' - - - 279 

44. MrT. to MrB. Thanks 
and observations - 279 

45. Mr B. to Mr T. 'On 
Bannockburn' — sends 

• Fair.! en n/ - - 280 

46. MrB. to MrT. With 
'Deluded swain, the plea- 
sure'- Remarks - 281 

47. Mr 8. to Mr T. With 
•Thine am I, my faithful 
fair'— • O condescend, dear 
charming maid' — ' The 
nigGtingale' — ' Laura' — 
(the three last by G. Turn- 
bull) - - - 281 

48. Mr T. to Mr B. Ap- 
prehensions—Thanks 283 

49. Mr B. to -Mr T. With 
'Husband, husband, cease 
vour strife,' and 'Wilt 
thon be my dearie' - 283 

50. .Mr T. to Ml B. 1794. 
Melancholy comparison 
between Burns and Car- 
iini- Mr Allan has begun 
a sketch from the Cottar's 
Saturday Niftht - ' 2S3 

51. Mr B. to MrT. Praise 
of Mr Allan— 'Banks of 
Cree' - - - 284 

52. Mr B. to Mr T. Pleyel 
in France — ' Here where 
the Scottish .Muse immor- 
tal lives,' presented to Miss 
Graham of Fintry - 284 

53. Mr T. to Mr B, Does 
not expect to hear from 
Pleyel soon, but desires to 
be prepared with the poe- 
try - ... 284 

54. Mr B. to Mr T. W J.i 

' On the seas and far iway' "284 

55. Mr T. to Mr B. Criti- 
2S5 

55. MrB. to Mr T. With 
' Ca' the yowes to the 
knowes' - - . 285 

57. Mr B. to Mr T With 
* She says she loes me best 
of a' — ' 6 let me in,' &c. — 
St,inza to Dr Maiwell 28S 

58. Mr T. to Mr B. Ad- 
rising him to write a Mu- 
jicalUrama • . 28/ 

59. Mr T. to Mr B. Has 
been examining Scottish 

ollections — Ritson— Diffi- 



:nltt( 
lodies 



their 



t me- 



— ' How long and dreary ia 
the night'—* Let not wo- 
man e'er complain' — ' Tha 
lover's morning salute to 
his mistress' — • The Anld 
Man' — 'Keen blaws the 
wind o'er Donocht-head,' 
in a note - - 2£ 

61. MrT. to MrB. Wshes 
he knew the iuspiring Fair 
One — Ritson's historical 
essay not interesting — Al- 
lan — Maggie Lander 2£ 

62, Mr B. to Mr T. Has 
begnn his Anecdotes, Sjc. 
— 'My Chloris mark how 
green the groves' — Love — 
• It was the charming 
month of May' — ' Lassie 
wi' the lint-white locks' — 
History of the Air 'Ye 
banks and braes o' bonny 
Doon' — James Miller — 
Clarke— The black keys- 
Instances of the difiBc'nity 
of tracing the origin of 



64. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
' Phiily, happy be that 
day*— starting note— 'Con. 



:nted w 



•' Canst thou 
leave me thus, my Katy"— i 
(The reply, 'StaymvWil- 
lie, yet believe me,' in a 
note)— Stock and horn 293 
65. Mr T. to Mr B. Praise 
— Desires more songs of 
the hnjaorooA cast — Means 



CONTENTS. 

Page 
to have a picture from 
« The Soldier's Return' 295 

66. Mr B. to Mr T. With 

' My Nannie's awa' 295 

67. Mr B. to Mr T. 1795. 
With ' For a' that an' a' 
that,' and 'Sweet fa's the 
eve on Craigieburn' 296 

68. MrT. toMrB. Thanks 297 

69. Mr B. to Mr T. • O 
Lassie, art thou sleeping 
yet,' and the Answer 297 

70. Mr B. to Mr T. • Dis- 
praise of Ecclefechau' 297 

71. MrT. to Mr B. Thanks 297 

72. Mr B. to Mr T. ' Ad- 
dress to the Woodlark' — 
<0n Chloris being ill'— 

• Their groves o' sweet 
myrtle,' iic. — • Twas na 
her bonny bine e'e,' &c. 298 

73. Mr T. to Mr B. With 
Allan's design from ' The 
Cottar's Saturday Night' 299 

74. Mr B. to Mr T. With 

* How cruel are the pa- 
rents," and • Mark yonder 
pomp of costly fashion' 299 

75. MrB. Co MrT. Thanks 
for .^llan s designs 299 

76. Mr T. to Mr B. Com- 
pliment ... 299 

77. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
an improvemept in ♦Whis- 
tle and I'll come to yon, 
my lad' — ' O this is no my 



has cl; 
green'- 



.8 yon 



78. Mr T. to Mr B. Intro- 
dncing Di Briantoo 301 

79. MrB. to MrT. •For- 
lorn my love, no comfort 
near' ... 301 

80. MrB. to MrT. 'Last 
May a braw,' &c. — « Why, 
why tell thy lover,' a frag- 
ment ... 203 

81. Mr T. to Mr B. - 302 

82. MrT. to MrB. 1796. 
After an awful panse 303 

83. Mr B. to Mr T. Thanks 
for P. Pindar, &c.— ' Hey 
for a lass wi' a tocher' 303 

84. Mr -r. to Mr B. Allan 
has designed some plates 
for an 8vo edition 303 

83. Mr B. to Mr T. Af- 
flicted by sickness, but 
pleased with Mr Allan's 
etchings - - . 303 

86. -Mr T. to Mr B. Sym- 
parfiy — encouragement 304 

87. Mr B. to Mr T. With 
• Here's a health to ane I 
lo'e dear- - . 304 

88. Mr B. to Mr T. Intra 
ducing Mr Lewars— Has 
uken a fancy to review his 
songs — hopes to recover 304 

89. Mr B. to Mr T. Dread- 
ing the horrors of a jail, 
solicits the advance of 
five pounds, and encbses 
< Fairest maid on Devon 
aankr - - . 304 

90. Mr T. to Mr B. Sym. 
pathy— Advises a wlnme 
of poetry to be published 
by subscription: Popepab- 
Ushed the Iliad to 30* 



LIFE 



ROBERT BURNS. 



PREFATORY REAURKS. 

THOUGH the dialect in which many of the 
bappiest effusions of Robert Burns are com- 
poted, be peculiar to Scotland, yet his reputa- 
tloa lias extended itself beyond ihu limit* of 
that country, and his poetry has been admired 
u the offspring of original fcenius, by persons 
of taste in every part of the sister islat.ds. "I'ne 
inttreat excited by !iis earlv dealli, and the dib- 
ttes»of his iiifaiil family," have been felt in a 
remarkable nmnner wherever his writings hare 
bsen known : and these p slhimious volumes, 
which ^ive lo tlie world his works complete, 
>ind which, it it: hoped, may raise his< widu^v 
and children from penury, are printed and pub- 
lish^d in England. It seems proper, therefore, 
to write the .'Vieaioirs of his life, not with ibe 
fiew of their being read by Scotchmen only, 
tout also by natives of England, and of other 
eountries where the English language is spoken 
or understood. 

Kobert Burns was in reality what he has 
been represented to be, a Scottish pea-ant. 
To render the incidents of his humble story 
generally intelligible, it seems, therefore, ad- 
visable o pretix some observa ions on the char- 
acter and situation of the order to which he 
belonsed,— aclassof men distinguished b\ many 
peculiarities: by this means we sliail form a 
more correct notion of the ndvuiua^es with 
which he started, and of the obst:icleb a hich he 
surmounted. A few observati<ms on tlie Scot, 
tish peasantry will not, perhaps, be found 
unworthy of attention in other respects; and 
the subject is in a great measure new. Scot- 
laud has produced persons of high distinction 
in every branch of philosophy and literature; 
and her history, while a sepiirate and Indepen- 
dent nation, has been successfully explored. 
But the present character of the people was not 
then formed ; the nation then presented fealures 
similar to those which the feudal system atid 
the catholic religion had diffused over Europe, 
modified, indeed, by the peculiar nature of her 
territory and climate. The Reformation, by 
which such important chanjres were produced 
on the national character, was speedily followed 
by the Accession of the Scottish moiiarchs to 
the English throne; and tiie period which 
elapsed from tiiat accession to the Union, has 
b«en rendered memorable, cUieily by '.hobe 



bloody conmlsions in which both divisions tit 
tiie island were involved, and which, in a coa- 

siderabie degree, concealed from the eye of the 
hrsioriaii the domestic history of the people, and 
the gradual variations in their condition and 
ninn'n^rs. Since the Union, Scotland, though 
the seat of two unsuccessful attempts to restore 
the House of Stuart to the throne, has enjovfd 
• comparative tranquility ; and it is since this 
period ihat the present character of her peasan- 
try has been in a great measure formed, ihou^jll 
the political causes affecting it are to be traced 
to the previous acts of her separate legislature. 
A >.lijrhi acquaintance with the peasantry of 
Scoilaiui, will serve to convince an unpreju- 
diced oii-erver, that they possess a degree of 
intelligence not generally found among the saino 
class of iiieii in the other countries of Europe. 
In the very humblest condition of the Scoftifh 



every 



read, a 



Ere more or less skilled in writing and arilli- 
melic ; and under the disguise of their uncouttj 
appearance, and of their peculiar manners tiid 
dialec^, a stranger will discover that tiie^ pos- 
sess a curiosity, and have obtained a degree of 
informatiun, corresponding to these ocquire- 



164G, for the establishment of a school in 
every parish throughout the kingdom, for tha 
exprci- purpose of educating the poor; a law 
wbicli ni^_. challenge comparison with a: y act 
of l^gislaticn to be found in the records of his- 
tory, whether we cons der the w isdom of the 
ends in view, the simplicity of the means em- 
ployed, or the provisions made to render these 
means effectual to the;r purpose. This excel- 
lent statute was repealed on the accession of 
Chirles II. in 1660, together with all the 
other laws passed durii.g the comnionwealtii, 
as Kot being sanctioneo by the royal absent. It 
slept during the reigns of Charles and-Jami-s, 
but was re-enacted precisely in the same terms, 
by the Scottish parliament, after the Revolution 
in 1696 ; and this is the last provision on tba 
subject. Its effects on the national character 
may be considered to bave commenced about 
the per'od of the Union; and doubtless it co- 
operated with the peace and security arising 
fro;n that happy event, in produc n^ the <ss~ 
traordiu.;ry rhu-ige in favour of iuaualf| »b4 



DLVMOXD CABE^ET LISRAJlT. 



* The importance of the national establish- 
meat of parish 6chi)ols iii Scotland will jU'^tify 
a short accouot of the legislative provisions res- 
pectins it. especially as the subject has escaped 
the notice of all the historians. 

Bv an act of the king (James YI.) and privy 
couiicil. of the lOtb of {>«cember, 1616. it was 
recommended to the bishops to deule aod travel 
with (he "ueritorii (land proprietors), OJid the 
inhab-.tants of the resppctive parishes in their 
respr-ctive dioceses, towards the tiling upon 
*» dome certain, solid, and sure course" tor 
seilliiig and esiienairiinj a school in e^ch 
parish. This waa ratil;ed by a statute of Cbar. 
1. (the act, 1633, chap. 5. ') which empowereil 
the bishop, with the consent of the heritor* of 
a pari«h, or of a majority of the iuhabiianu, if 
the heritors refused to attuna the nieetiop, U» 
assess every piough of land Tthat in, ev«rf 
tarui, in proiHjrtioc to the number of pluugkj 
upon it) with a cer:a:n sum for establishing a 
echuol. This -vaii an inerfectuai provision, as 
aepe:iJiug on the consent and pleasure of the 
heritors and inhabitants. I'herefore a new 
order of things was introduced by Slat. 1646, 
cUa.p. 17, which o6/ist;s the heritors aad minis- 
ter of euch parish to meet and a^jsess the several 
heritors with the requisite sum for building a 
BCQool-house, and to elect a school-master, and 
pjodify a ^alarj for him in all time to come. 
tVje salary is ordered not to be under one 
^'tuOred, nor above two hundred merks, that 
: 4, lu our present sierliof money, not under 
A^a, Us. Ud- nor aboye L.li,'2s. 3d. and 
tae asaessmeut is to be laid on the laud in the 
xame proporiion as it is rstfd for the support of 
<iiie clergy, and as it regulates the payment of 
Um land-tax. But in case the beritcs of any 



what i« called the Go-Timiftee of Supply of the 
county, (couaistiog of the principal iaadholders) 
or any Jive of them, are authoriktu by the statute 
to iit:po»e the assessment instead of them, on 
the repre5»€ntalion of the presbytery in which 
the pax;»u ig situated. To secure the choice of 
a proper teaecer, the ri^ht of electiun bf t!i« 
heritors, by a atatnte pa»e-i in 1693, chip *ii 
is made -ubject to the rewew and cocuo! of the 
presbytery .^ the disuict. woo ha*e the 
asainatioa of tlie pers^u proposed committed to 
iLliBm. itulii as to his qaalihcalioiu as a teacher, 
a«J as to iit« proper deportment in the o£c« 
^nea seltied in it. Th« eiectjon of ilie heritors 
is therefom only a prekeutmeut of a jtrtts for 
tiia approbatioa of the presbytery ; who, il they 
find him untit, may declare his incapticity, and 
thus ooii^e tbem to elect anew. So far is 
SUied O.I uutjue&tiouabie authority.* 

Tiie ie^ai salary of the schoolmaster was not 
ij>«oujii>ier.ibie at the time it was lixed ; but by 
the decrcuae in the val«« of money, it is i.ow 
e«3rt&inly iuadetju&ui to its object ; aiid it is 
painful to observe, that tha landholders of 
eootiaud resisted tbe bumble applicaiiou of the 
MClMvi masters to the legislature for its lucreasa, 
hi«sw >ear> n^o. 'Ihs number of parishes ia 



Scotland is S/7 ; and if we allow the salary of 
t iwhoolmaster in eai-h to be, on an averas-p. 
sc»en Dound... Slerlisi;:. the amount of the lej-ii 
proviMon will be I..6139 Sterling. If we sup- 
pose the wa^es paid by the scholars to amount 
to twice this sum, which is probably beyond 
the truth, the total of the espences amoncf 
1.526, 1U2 persons (the whole population of 
Scotland) of this mo€t important establishment 
will b# /;. 18,417. But on this, *s well as on 
other subjects respecting Scotland, accurate iii- 
formatioo iRny soon be expected from Sir Joba 
Sinclair 's Analysis of his Statistics, which will 
complete the immortal monument be has rear* 
•d to his patriotism. 

Tbe benefit arising in Scotland from the in- 
stracticn of the poor, was soon felt j and by aa 
act of the Britisit parliament, 4 (reo. 1. chap. 
6, it is enacted, "that of the moneys arising 
from tbe sale of the Scottish estates, forfeited 
in the rebellion of 1715, L. 2, 000 sterling sb*ll 
be converted into • capital stock, tbe interest of 
which shall be laid out in erecting and main- 
taining schools in the Hisrhlaiids. The Society 
for propagating Christian Knowledge, incor- 
porated in 1709, have applied a large part of 
their f»nd for the same purpose. By their re- 
port, 1st May, 1795, the annual sum employed 
Dv them, in supporting theur schools in the 
liigbluids and Lilands, was L.3,913, 193. 
lOd. in which are taught the English language, 
reading and writing, and the principles of re» 
ligion. Ths schools of the society are addU 
tional to the legal schools, which, from th« 
ffrsat extent of many of the Highland parishes, 
were found insuScient, Besides these estab- 
lished schools, the lower classes of people in 
Scotland, where the parishes are large, often 
combine together, *nd establish private schools 
of their own. at one of which it was that Burns 
received the principal part of his education. So 
convinced indeed are the poor people of Scot- 
land, by experience, of the benefit of instruction- 
to their children, that though they may often 
find it dilHcult to feed and clothe them, some 
kind of school-instruction they almost always 
procure them. 

The inauence of the school establishment of 
Scotia::d on th« peasantry of that country, 
seems to have decided by experience a question 
of l*eislation of the utmost importance 
whether & system of national instruction for 
the poor be favourable to morals and good 
goveraraeat? In the year 16!iS, Hetcher of 
S&ltoun declared as follows : " T%ere are at 
this day in Scotland, two hundred thousand 
people begging from door to door. And though 
the number of them be perhaps double to what 
it was formerly, by reason of this present great 
dislre»* (a famine then prevailed) yet in all 
tixir-s there have been about one hnndred thou- 
sand of those vagaban'ia wbo have lived without 
any regard or subjection either to the laws of 
th^ lanu, or even those of God and N»tu>e ; 
fathers iiicestuously acconspanyiug witn taeir 
own daughters, the son with the inwther, and 
the brother wiih the sister. " He goes on t« 
fcay, that no mi-gistriite ever could discover that 
uiey had ev^r been bapli/ed, or in wtiai waj 
out: in a huudicd went out oi the world. Ua 



BURN'S—PREFATORY REIttARES. 



cd, \rhieh may Iw eallad ItB school-eetablish- 
Bieiit. The clergyman, being every where 
resident in his particuior parish, become* the 
natural patroa and auperiittendant of the parish 



accuses them aa trtqaeaHj fuilty of robbery, 
and sometimes of murder t •* In yrm of plen- 
ty," says he, " many thoasandg of them meet 
together in the mountains, where they feast and 
riot for many days ; and at country weddings, 
markets, buriaJt, and other public occasions, 
ey are to be seen, both men and women, per> 
jwtually drunk, cursinfj, blaspheming, and 
tighting together. ''*' Tbi« high-minded states- 
•naii, of whom it is said by a contemporary, 
u' that he would lose his life readily to save his 
tuuntry, and would not do a base thing to serve 
it, ' ' thought the evil so great that he proposed 
as a P^meUy, the revival of domestic slavery, 
according to the practice of his adored republics 
in the classic ages ! A better remedy has been 
found, which in the silent lapse of a century 
has proved efiectual. The statute of 1696, 
the noble legacy of the Scoiiibb Parliament to 
their country, began soon after this to operate ; 
and happily, as the mind* of the poor received 
in.<tructiun, the Union opened new channels of 
industry, and new fields of action to their view. 
At the present day there is perhaps no coun- 
try in Europe, in which, in proportion to its 
population, so small a number of crimes fall 
Un'de/ the chastisement of the criminal law, as 
Scotland. We have the best authority for 
ast>ertiug, that on an average of thirty years, 

S receding the year 1797, the ex ■ . . 

ivision of the island did not 



to Mr lluiue, more felons to the plantati 
than all the judges erf Scotland ttsually do in 
the space of a year.*!* It might appear invi- 
dious to attempt a calculation of the many 
thousand individuals in Manchester and its 
iricinity who can neither read nor write. A 
majority of those who safier th* panishment 
of death for their crimes in every part of Eng- 
land are, it ia believed, ia this miserable state 
of ignorance. 

There is now > legal proTishn for parochial 
Mhools, or rather for a school in each of the 
diffwant townships into which the country is 
diriitdf in several of the northern states of 
N-nth Ammca. They are, however, of recent 
ori^fin there, excepting in New England, where 
they were established in the last century, pro- 
fcably aboBt the same time as in Scotland, and 
by the same religions sect. In the Protestant 
Cantons of Switzerland, the peasantry have 
&» advantaf e of iknilar schools, though estab- 
lished and endowed in a diD'erent manner. 
This ia also the case in certain districts ia 
England, particularly, in the northern parts of 
Yorkshire and ot l>ancashire, and in the coun- 
ties td WestmoreiiUMi and Cambertand. 

A law, providing for the instrnetion <if the 
aoor, was passed by the Parliament of Ire- 
land ) but the fund was diverted from its por^ 



* Political Works of Andrew Fletcher, 
•ctavo, London, 1737, p. 144. 

•h Hume's Commentaries on the Laws of 
Scuiiaiid, lnlrndiwtu)n jp. 50. 



•ebool, and is enabled in varione ways to iiri>- 
mote the comfort of the teacher, and the pron- 
ciency of the scholars. The teacher himselt is 
often a candidate for holy orders, who, during 
the long couise of study and probation requin-d 
in the Scottish church, renders the time which 
can be spared ftom his professional stndicsy 
useful to others as weH as to himself, by a8sna»< 
ing the respectable character of a sohoolmaster. 
It is common for the established soh'Jols, even 
in the country parishes of Scotland, to enjoy 
the means of classical instruction ; and maay 
of the farmers, and some even of the cottagers, 
submit to much privation, that the? may obtain, 
for one of their sons at least, the precarious 
advantage of a learned education, llie difficulty 
to be surmounted, arises, indeed, not from the 
expense of instructing their cmidren, but from 
the charge of supporting them» In the country 
parish :>chool8, the English lai^iuage, writing, 
and accounts, are generally taught at the rate 
of six shillings, and Latin at the rate of ten or 
twelve shillings per annum. In the towns, the 
prices are somewhat higher. 

It would be improper in this place to inquire 
minutely into the degiee of insiruction received 
at these seminaries, or to attempt any precise 
estimate of its eflects, either on the individcais 
who are the subjects of tJiis instruction, or on 
the community to which ihey belong. That it 
is on the whole favourable to industry and 
morals, though doubtless with some individual 
exceptions, seems to be proved by the most 
striking and decisive experience ; and it is 
equally clear, that it is the cause of that spirit 
of emigration and of adventure so prevalent 
among the Scotch. Knowledge has, by Lord 
Veralam, been denominated power ; by others 
it has, with less propriety, been denominated 
virtue or happiness: we may with confidence 
consider it as motion. A human being, in pr<^ 



was entirely frnstrated. 



pose, and the ir 
ProhPudmrt 

The similarity of character between the 
Swiss and the Scotch, and between the Scotch 
and the people of New England, can scarcely 
be overlooked. That it arises in a great meas- 
• — 'rom the similarity of their institutions fm 
action, cannot be ^estioned. It is nc 
doubt increased by physical causes. With o 
superior degree or iiutrnction, each of these 
nations possesses a country that may be said 
to be sterile, in the neighbourhood of countries 
eoniparatively rich. Uence emigrations and 
the other effects on conduct and character 
which such circumstances naturally produite. 
This subject is in a high degree curious, ll-.e 
points m dissimilarity between these nations 
might be traced to their causes also, and the 
whale investigation would perhaps admit of an 
approach to certainty in our conclusions, 'o 
which such inquiries seldom lead. How mmh 
superior in morals, in intellect, and in happi- 



The peasantry of Westmoreland, and of t.ha 
other districts mentioned above, if their physi- 
cal and moral qualities be taken together, ar«s 
in the opinion of the Editor, superior Ut the 
peasantry of any put of the island. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



portion u he Is informed, has his wishes en- 
larged, as well as the means of gratifying those 
wishes. He may be considered as taking with, 
in the sphere of his vision a larger portion of 
the globe on which we tread and discovering ad- 
Vantages at a greater distance ouits surface. His 
desires or ambition once excited, are stimulated 
by his imagination ; and distant and 
objects, giving freer scope 
this faculty, often acquire, 
youthful adventure, an attraction from their 
very distance and uncertainty. If, therefore, a 
great degree of instruction be given to the 
peasantry of a country comparatively poor, in 
the neighbourhood of other countries rich in 
natural and acquired advantages ; and if the 
barriers be removed that kept them separate ; 
emigration from the former to the latter will 
take place to a certain extent, by laws nearly 
as uniform as those by which heat diffuses i tself 
among surrounding bodies, or water finds its 
level when left to its natural course. By the 
articles of the Union, the barrier was brolcen 
down which divided the two British nations, 
and knowledge and poverty poured the adven- 
turous natives of the north over thefertil plains 
of England, and more'especially, over the colo- 
nies which she had settled in the East and in 
the West. The stream of population continues 
to flow from the north to the south ; for the 
causes that originally impelled it, continues to 
operate ; and the richer country is constantly 
invigorated by the accesaion of an informed 
and hardy race of men, educated in poverty, 
and prepared for hardship and danger, patient 
of labour, and prodigal of life.f 



t It has been supposed, that Scotland is less 
populous and less improved on account of this 
emigration : but such conclusions are doubtful 
if not wholly fallacious. The principle of 
population acts in no country to the full extent 
of its power ; marriage is every where retarded 
beyond the period pointed out by natura, by the 
difficulty of supporting a family; and this ob- 
stacle is greatest in long settled communities. 
The emigration of a part of a people facilitates 
the marriage of the rest, by producing a rela- 
tive increase, in the means of subsistance. The 
arguments of Adam Smith, for a free export of 
corn,are perhaps applicable with less exception 
to the free export of people. The more certain 
the vent, the greater the cultivation of the soil 
This subject has been well investigated by Sir 
James Stewart, whose principles have been 
expanded and farther illustrated in a late truly 
philosophical Essay on Population. In fact, 
Scotland has increased in the number of its 
inhabitants in the last forty years as the Statis- 
tics of Sir John Sinclair clearh prove, but not 
in the ratio that some had supposed. The ex- 
tent of the emigration of the Scots may be cal- 
culatedwith some degree of coiitidence from the 
proportionate number of the two sexes in Scot - 
land; a point that may be established pretty 
exactly by an examination of the invaluable 
Statistics already mentioned. If we suppose 
that there is an equal number of male any 
female natives of Scotland, alive somewhere 01 
*ther, the excess by which the females exceec* 
the males in their own country, may be eonsid- 
«red to be egu&l to the number of Scotcbmeu 



The preachers of the Reformatioi 

land were disciples of Calvin, and broughl 
with tiicm the temper as well as the tenets oT 
that celebrated berei^iarch. The presoyteriai 
form of worship and of church goveruu: 
endeared to the people, from its being e- 
ed by themselves. It was endeared to them,9 
also, by the struggle it had to maintain witli 
the operation of ; the Catholic and the Protestant episicopal 
d of the :' churches, over both of which, after a huuuredS 
years of fierce, and sometimes bloody cunten- * 
tion, it finally triumphed, receiving the coun> 
tenance of government, and the sanction of law. 
Diu-ing this long period of contention and of 
sufl'ering, the temper of the people became more 
and more obstinate and bigotted ; and the natioa 
received that deep tinge of fanaticism, which 
coloured their public transactions as well as 
their private virtues, and of which evident 
traces may be found in our own times. When ■ 
the public schools were established, the instruc-^ 
tion communicated in them partook of the re-fl 
ligious character of the people. The Catechi-mS 
of the Westminster Divines was the universal .? 
school-book, and was put into the hands of the 
young peasant as soon as he had acquired 4 
knowledge of his alphabet ; and his nrst exer- 
cises in the art of reading introduced him to the 
most mysterious doctrines of the Christian faith. 
This practice is continued in our own times. 
After the Assembly 's Catechism, the I*roverb» 
of Solomon, and the New and Old Testament, 
follow in regular succession ; and the scholar 
departs, gifted with the knowledge of the 
sacred writings, and receiving their doctrines 
according to the interpretation of the West- 
minster Confessiou of Faith. Thus, with the 
instruction of infancy lu the schools of Scotland, 
are blended the dogmas of the national cburcij ; 
and hei,ce the first and most constant exercise 
of in^eiiuity among the peasantry of Scotland, 
is displayed in religions disputation. With a 
strong attachment to the national creed, is con- 
joined a bigoted preference of certain forms of 
worship ; the source of which would be altoge- 
ther obscure, if we did not recollect that the 
ceremonies of the Scottish church were formed 
in direct opposition, in every point, to those ck 
the church of Rome. 

The eccentricities of conduct, and singulm^ 
ties of opinion and manners, which character, 
ized the English sectaries in the last century, 
afibrded a subject for the comic muse of Butler, 
whose pictures lose their interest, since their 
archetypt ' " 



the 1 



e of the peculi 
re rigid disciples 
■' ; present timi 



of 



inism in Scotland, 
given scope to the ridicule of But 
humour is eijual to Butler's ; and whose draw- 



living out of Scotland. Bnt though the males 
born in Scotland be admitted to be as 13 to 12, 
and though some of the females emigrate a^ 
well as the males, this mode of calculating 
would probably make the number of expatriated 
Scotchmen, at any one time alive, greater thac 
the truth. The unhealthy climates in which 
they emigrate, the hazardous services in which 
so many of ttiem engage, reuder the mean life 
of those who leave Scotland (to speak iii the 
language of calculators), not perhapb of half 
the value of the mean life ol those who remain. 



BURNS PREFATORY REMARKS. 



fngs from living manners are singularly ex- 
pressive and exact. Unfortunately the correct- 
ness of his taste did not always correspond with 
the strength of his genius ; and hence some of 
»ne most exquisite of his comic productions are 
rendered untit for the light. * 

The information and the religious education 
of the peasantry of iscotland, promote sedateness 
of conduct, and habits of thought and reflection. 
— These good qualities are not counteracted by 
the establishment of poor laws ; which, while 
they reflect credit on the benevolence, detract 
from the wisdom of the English legislature. 
To make a legal provision for the inevitable 
distress of the poor, who by age or disease 
are rendered incapable of labour, may indeed 
seem an indispensable duty of society ; and if, 
in the execution of a plan for this purpose, a 
distinction could be introduced, so as to exclude 
from its benefits those whose suft'erings are pro- 
duced by idleness or profligacy, such an insti- 
tution would perhaps be as rational as hum 
But to lay a general tax on property, for the 
support of poverty, from whatever cause pro- 
ceeding, is a measure full of danger. It must 
operate in a considerable degree as an incite- 
ment to idleness, and a discouragement to indus- 
try. It takes away from vice and indolence " 
prospect of their most dreaded consequen< 
and from uirtue and industry their peculiar 
In many cases it must render the 
n the price of labour, not a blessing, but a 
to the labourer ; who, if there be an ex- 
i wliat he earns beyond his immediate 
ities, may be expected to devote this ex- 
cess to his present gratification ; trusting to the 
provision made by law for his own and his 
family's support, should disease suspend, or 
death terminate his labours. Happily, in Scot- 
laud, the same legislature which established a 
system of instruction for the poor, resisted the 
introduction of a legal provision for the support 
of poverty ; the establishment of the first, and 
the rejection of the last, were equally favourable 
to industry and good morals ; and hence it will 
not appear surprising, if the Scottish peasantry 
have a more than usual share of prudence and 
reflection, if they approach nearer than persons 
of their order usually do, to the delinitioii of a 
man, that of " a being that looks before and 
after. " _ These observations must indeed be 
taken with many exceptions. 1 he favourable 
operation of the causes just mentioned, is coun- 
teracted by others of an opposite tendency ; and 
the subject, if fully examined, would lead to 
discussions of great extent. 

When the reformation was established in 
Scotland, instrumental music was banished 
from the churches, as savouring too much of 
♦' profane minstrelsy. " Instead of being regu- 
lated by an instrument, the voices of the con- 
gregation are led and directed by a person 
under the name of a precentor ; and the people 
are all expected to join in the tune which he 
chooses for the psalm which is to be sung. 
Cburch-music is therefore a part of the educa- 
tion of the peasantry of Scotland, in which they 
are usually instructed in the long winter nights 



• Holy Willie's Prayer— Rob the Bymer'g 
Welcome to his Bastard Child— F"istla t» J. 
G«wdi«— the Holy Tulzie, &c. 



by the parish schoolmaster, who is generally 
the precentor, or by itinerant teachers more 
celebrated for their powers of voice. This 
branch of education had, in the last reign, 
fallen into some neglect, but was revived about 
thirty or forty years ago, when the music itself 
was reformed and improved. The Scottish 
system of psalmody is however Tadically bad. 
Destitute of taste or harmony, it forms a strik- 
ing contrast with the delicacy and pathos of the 
profane airs. Our poet, it will be found, was 
taught church-music, in which, however, ho 
made little proficiency. 

That dancing should also be very generally a 
part of the education of the Scottish peasantry, 
will surprise those who have only seen this de- 
scription of men ; and still more those who 
reflect on the rigid spirit of Calvinism willi 
which the nation is so deeply aifected, and to 
which this recreation is so strongly abhorrent. 
The winter is also the season when they acquire 
dancing, and indeed almost all their other in- 
struction. They are taught to dance by persona 
generally of their own number, many of whom 
work at daily labour during the summer 
months. The school is usually a barn, and 
the arena for the performers is generally a clay 
floor. The dome is lighted by candles stuck iu 
one end of a cloven stick, the other end of 
which is thrust into the wall. Reels, strath- 
speys, country-dances, and hornpipes, are here 
practised. The jig, so much in favour among 
the English peasantry, has no place among 
them. The attachment of the people of Scot- 
land, of every rank, and particularly of the 
peasantry, to this amusement, is very great. 
After the labours of the day are over, young 
men and women walk many miles, in the cold 
and dreary nights of winter, to these country 
dancing-schools ; and the instant that the vio- 
lin sounds a Scottish air, fatigue seems to 
vanish, the toil-bent rustic becomes erect, his 
features brighten with sympathy ; every nerve 
seems to thrill with sensation, and every artery 
to vibrate with life. These rustic performers 
are indeed less to be admired for grace, than 
for agility and animation, and their accurate 
observance of time. Their modes of dancing, 
as well as their tunes, are common to every 
rank in Scotland, and are now generally 
known. In our own day they have penetrated 
into England, and have established themselves 
even in the circle of Royalty. In another 
generation they will be naturalized in every 
part of the island. 

The prevalence of this taste, or rather passion 
for dancing, among a people so deeply tinctured 
with the spirit and doctrines of Calvin, is one 
of those contradictions which the philosophic 
observer so often finds in national character and 
manners. It is probably to be ascribed to the 
Scottish musicj which, throughout all its va- 
rieties, is so full of sensibility, and which in its 
livelier strains, awakes those vivid emotions 
that find in dancing their aatural solace and 
relief. 

This triumph of the music of Scotland over 
the spirit of the established religion, has not, 
however, been obtained without long continued 
and obstinate struggles. The numerous sec- 
taries who dissent from the establishment on 
account of the relaxation which they perceive, 
or think they perceive, in the Church, from 
original doctrines and discipline, uuiversaliy 



i;:a3iond fcABi. ;et library 



coiukinn the practice of dancing, and the 
schools where it is taught : and" the more 
elderly and serious part of the people, of e^ urj 
persuasion, tolerate rather than approve tliese 
meetings of the young of both sexes, where 
dancing is practised to their spirit-stirring 
music, whexe care is dispelled, toil is forgot- 
ten, and prudence it&eif is sometimes lulled to 
sleep. 

lite Reformation, which pro\ed fetal to the 
rise of the other line arts in Scotland, proba- 
LIt impeded, but could not obstruct, the pro- 
gress of its music; & circumstance that will 
convince the impartial inquirer, that this music 
Dot onl/ existed previous to that era, but had 
taken a firm hold of the nation ; thus ail'ord- 
itig a proof of its antiquity, stronger than any 
produced by the researches of our antiquaries. 

The impression which the Scottish music 
has made on the people, is deepened by its 
UQ:i.a with the national songs, of which 
various collections of unequal merit are before 
the pi:blic. These songs, like those of other 
naiious, are many of them humorous, but they 
chietly treat of love, war, and drinking. Love 
is the subject of the greater proportion. 'With- 
cut displaying the higher powers of the ima- 
gination, they exhibit a. perfect knowledge of 
the human heart, and breathe a spirit of atiec- 
tion, and sometimes of delicate and romantic 
tenderness, not to be surpassed in modern 
poetry, and which the more polished siraius 
of antiquity have seldom possessed. 

The origin of this amatory character in the 
rustic muse of Scotland, or of the greatet 
number of those love-songs themsehes, it 
■»iouId be difficult to trace ; they lia^e accumu- 
laied in the silent lapse of time, and it is now 
perhaps impossible to give an arrangement of 
tiicm in the order of their date, valuable as 
EUcii a record of taste and manners would be. 
Iheir present iniluence on the character of 
■ ' owever, great and striking, 
attribute, in a great measure, 
ion which so often character- 
izes the attachments of the humblest of the 
people of Scotland, to a degree, that if we 
mistake not, is seldom found in the same rank 
of society in other countries. -The pictures 
of love and happiness exhibited in their rural 
tongs, are eariy impressed on the mind of tlie 
peasant, and are rendered more attractiv?. from 
the music with which they are united. They 
associate themselves with Li< own youthful 
emotions ; they ele\-ate the object as well as the 
nature of his attachment ; and give to the im- 
pressions of sense the beautiful colours of 
imagination- Hence in the course of his pas- 
sion, a Scottish peasant often exerts s spirit of 
adventure, of which a Spanish cavalier need 
not be ashamed. After the labours of the day 
are orer, he sets out for the habitation of his 
tuistress, perhaps at manv miles distance, re- 
gardless of the length or the dreariness of the 
w Bj. He approaches her in secrecy, under the 
«ii«enise of night. A signal at the tioor or win- 
dow .perhaps agreed on, and understood by ncas 
fc=t her, gives information of his arriv&l; b*4 
B4.>nietimes it is repeated again and agsi&, 
before the capricious fair one -will obey the 
summons. But if she favours his addresses, 
she escapes unobserved, and receives the vows 
ti h«rr lover under the gloom of twil ghi. or 
the deeper shade of uight. Interviews ut luia 



To then 



kind are the subtest* of m ny of the Scottis 
fK>uss, »ome of the most beautiful of which 
Burns has imiuted or improved. In the art 
which they celebrate he was perfectly skilled ; 
he knew and had practised ail iu mysteries. 
Intercourse of this sort is indeed universal, even 
in the humblest condition of man, in every re- 
gion of the earth. But it is not unnatural to 
suppose, that it may exist in a greater degree, 
and in a more romantic form, among the 
peasantry of a country who are supposed to be 
more than commonly iostrncted ; who tind ia 
their rural songs expressions for their youthful 
emotions ; and in whom the embers of passion 
are continually fanned by the breatliir.gs of i 
music full of tenderness and sensibility, llie 
direct iuilueuce of physical causes on the at- 
tachment between the sexes is comparaiively 
small, but it is modified by moral causes be\ ond 
. any other aflection of the mind. Of these, 
: music and poetry are the chief. Among the 
I snows of Laplacd, and under the burning sua 
i of Ajigola, the savage is seen hastening to his 
; mistress, and every where he beguiles the 
weariness of his journey with poetry and song.* 
In appreciating the happiness and virtue of 
a community, there is perhaps no single cri- 
terion on which so much dependence maybe 
placed, as the state of the intercourse between 
the sexes. Where this displays ardour of at- 
tachment, accompanied by purity of conduct, 
the character and the iutluence of women rise 
in society, our imperfect nature mounts on the 
scale of moral excellence, and from the sour.-o 
of this single afi'ection, a stream of felicity de- 
scends, w/iieh branches into a thousand rivulets 
that enrich and adorn the field of lite. Where 
the attachment between the sexes sinks into an 
appetite, the heritage of our species is coiupar- 
aiively poor, and man approaches the conuitioa 
of Uie brutes Hull perish. " If we could with 
safety indulge the pleasing supposition that 
Fingal lived and that Ortiau sung.f " Scot- 
land, judging from this criterion, might be 
I considered as ranking high in happiness auj 
I virtue in very remote ages. To appreciate her 
situation by the same criterion in our own times, 
w>^ uld be a delicate and difficult undertaking. 
After considering the probable influence of her 
popular songs and her national music, and ex. 
amining how far the eflects to be expected froia 
these are supported by facts, the inquirer would 
also have to examine the influence of other 
canses, and particularly of her ci'til and eccl»- 
siastical institutions, by which the character, 
and even the manners cf a people, though 
silently and slowly, are often powerfully con- 
trolled. In the point of view in which w« are 
considering the subject, the ecclesiastical esta- 
blishments of Scot; and may be supposed pecu- 
liar jy favourable to puiity of conduct- The 
dissoluteness of manners among the Catbolio 
clergy, which preceded, and in some measure 
produced the Keformctioo, led to an extraor- 



* The North-American Indians, amoo^ 
whom the attachment between the sexes is saij 
to be weak, and love, in the purer sense oi li.e 
word, unknown, seem nearly uuac^aiu'.rd 

ith the charms of poetry and music Nm 

f Gibboa. 



BURNS PREFATORY REMARKS. 



dinary strictness on the part of the reformer! 
•Jid especially in that particular in which the 
licentiousness of the clersy had beea carrietl 
its sreatest height— 'he interccurse between l 
sexes. On this point, m on a!i others connet 
eii with austerity of manners, the disciples of 
Calvin assniued « sreater sevrrity than those of 
the Protestant episcopal church. The puuish- 
ineni of illicit ooiio-iiou between the seses was, 
throughout ail Europe, a province which the 
cler?¥ assumed to themselves ; and the churcti 
of ScoUand, which at the Reformatioc renouu- 
Vd KO many powers and privilegest at that 
period took this crime under her sore especial 
jurisdiction.*— Where prejjuancj takes place 
'without marriao^e, ttie condition of th'» female 
causes the discovery, and it is on her, therefore, 
in the first instance, that the clergy anil elders 
of ttie church exercise their 2eal. After exam- 
ination before tne liirk-session touchitig the 
circumstance* of her gnilt, she must endure a 
public penance, and sustain a public rebu!:e 
ITum the pulpit, for three Sabbatho tuccessiveiy, 
ia the face of the conirrejration to which she 
belongs, and thus have her weakness exposed, 
ftnd her shame blazoned. The sentence is the 
same with respect to the male; but how mach 
lighter the punishment ! it is well known that 
this dreadfiii law, worthy of the iron niinds of 
Calvin and of Rnox, has often led to couse- 
qiicaces, at the very meniion of which human 
Bature recoils. 

While ttje punishment of incontinence pre- 
scribed by the institutions of Scotland, is severe, 
the culprits have an obvious method of avoiding 
tt, allbrded them by the law respecting mar- 
riage, the validity of which requires neither the 
ceremonies of the church, nor any other cere- 
monies, but simply the deliberate acknowledg- 
ment of each other as husband and wife, mdde 
by the parties before witnesses, or in any other 
way that gives legal evidence of such an ac- 
kaowledgment having takeu place. And as 



* In the punishment of this offence the 
Church employed formerly the arm of the civil 
power. During the reign of James the Vlth 
(James the First df Eii^land), criminal con- 
nexion between unmarried persons was made 
the subject of a particular statute. (See Hume's 
Commentaries on ike- Laws of Scotland, WoL ii. 
p. 3.S2. ) which, from its rigour, was never 
much enforced, and which has long fallen into 
<lisuse. >Vaen, ia the middle of the last century, 
the Puritans succeeded in the overthrow of the 
monarchy in both divisions of the island, forni- 
cation was a crime against which they directed 
their utmost zeal. It was made paai^hable 
with death in the second instance (See Biack- 
»tone, b. iv. chap. 4. ,Vo. II.). Happily this 
etinguinary statute was swept away along with 
the other acts of the Commonwealth, on the 
restoration of Charles 11. to whose temper and 
Biannerii it mast have been pecuharly abhorrenL 
And after the Revolution, when severni salutary 
acts passed during the suspension of the mon- 
archy, were re-enacted by the Scottish Parlia- 
ment, particularlv that for the estahiishment of 
parish schools, the statute puaishin? fornica- 
tt»n with death, was suffered to sleep in the 
! of the itern faaaticg who had git eu it 



f r»ve o 
birth. 



the parties themselves Gx the date of rh-^Jr mar- 
riage, an opportuuity is thus given toavdiu lue 
punishment, and repair the consequences of 
illicit gratihcation. Such a degree of iax-.ty 
respecting so serious a coutiact might produ-je 
much confusion in the descent of property, 
without a still farther indulgence ; btJt the iaw 
of Scotland legitimating all children born be- 
fore wedlock, on the subaecrnent marriage of 
their parents, renders the actual date of the 
marriage itself of little con^e(luence. f .Mar- 
riag'es contracted in Scotland without the 
ceremonies of the church are coiisiJered as 
inegu-ar, and the piU-ties usually submit lo a 
rebuke for their conduct, iu the face of their 
respective congregations, which is not, how* 
ever, necessary to render the marriajre valid. 
Bums, whose marriage, it will appear, wa» 
irregjlar, does not seem to have undergone thia 
part of the discipline of the church. 

Thus, though the institutions of Scotland are 
in many particulars favourable to a conduct 
among the peasantry founded on foresight and 
reflection, on the subject of marriage the reverse 
of this is true. Irregular marriages, it may 
be naturally supposed^! are often improviueiii 
ones, in whatever rank of society they occur. 
The children of such marriages, poorly endow- 
ed by their parents, find a certain decree of 
instmc'^oa of easy acquisition ; but the com- 
forts of iife, and the gratitications of ambition, 
they lind of more difficult attainment in thnr 
native soil ; and thus the marriage laws of 
Scotland conspire, with other circumstances, 
to produce that habit of emigration, and spirit 
of adventure, for which the people are so re 
markable. 

The manners and appearance of the Scottish 
peasantry do not bespeak to a stranger the de- 
gree of their cultivation. In their own counirv. 
their industry is inferior to that of the saiue 
description of men in the southern division of 
the island. Industry and the useful arts 
reached Scotland later than England; and 
though their advance has been rapid th^re. the 
eft'ecu produced are as yet far inferior, both in 
reality and in nppf-arance. The Scottish far- 
mers have in genera! neither the opulence nor 
the coaiforts of those of England— neither vest 
the same capital in the soil, nor receive from it 
the same return. Their clothing, their food, and 
their habitatioiii, are almost everywhere inf»- 



f The legitimation of children, by subsequent 
marriage, became the Roman law under the 
Christian emperors. It was the canoa law of 
modern Europe, and has been established in 
Scotland from a very remote period. Thus a 
child bom a bastard, if his parents afterwards 
marry, enjoys all the privileges of ser.iority 
over his brothers afterwards born in wedlock. 
In the Parliament of Merton, in the reign of 
Henry III. the English clergy made a vigorous 
attempt to introduce this article into the law of 
England, and it was on this occasion that the 
Barons made the noted answer, since so often 
appealed to ; Quod nolunt leges Anglice m:itan ; 
qct hue ueque ugituUB sutu approhatcB. IVIth 
regarti to what constitutes a marriage, the law 
of Scotland, at explained above, differs from 
the Roman law, woich required the ceremuit/ 
to be perform«a iiijacie n-dciia. 



DLIWOND CABINET Llliri.Ark.Y. 



i:or.* TLeir appearance in the^e respects cor- 
TH.-ponds with the appearance of their oouutry ; 
aiid under the operation of patient iiiilustry, 
fcuth are improving. Industry ainl tlie uselul 
arts came later inUi Scotland than into En-r- 
l;;tid, because the security of property came 
latir. Mlth causes of internal agitation and 
■uarfare similar to those which occurred to the 
Kiore southern nation, the people of. Scotland 
were exposed to more imminent hazards, and 
more extensive and destructive spoliation, from 
external war. Occupied in the maintenance 
of (heir independence against their more power- 



ighboui 



this 



cd the arts of peace, and at certain periods, 
the flower of their population. And ^ hen the 
umon of the crowns produced a security from 
national wars with England for the cemury 
succeeding, the civil wars common to both 
Uivisions of the island, and the dependence, 
perhaps the necessary dependence of the S.'ct- 
tish councils on those of the more powerful 
kinardom, counteracted this advantage. Even 
tl:e union of the British nations was not, from 
nbvions causes, immediately followed by all the 
b?netits which it was ultimately destined to 
produce. At length, however, these benefits 
aie distinctly felt, and generally acknowledged- 
Property is secure ; manufactures and com- 
;i.i rce increasing, and agriculture is rapidly 
"■I proving in Scotland. As yet, indeed, the 
'.■'jrmers are not, in general, enabled to make 
i:;provements out of their own capitals, as in 
i;:iglaud ; but the landholders, who have seen 
and felt the advantages resulting from them, 
contribute towards them with a liberal hand, 
ii.cce property, as well as population, is ac- 
.ji.iimlating rapidly on the Scottish soil ; and 
;i.e nation, enjoying a great part of the bless- 
iuss of Englishmen, and retaining several of 
tl;i'iv own happy in>titutions, might be consi- 
(■^cr^d, if contJuence could be placed in human 
foresight, to be as yet only in an early stage of 
their progre^s. Yet there are obstructions in 
taeir way. To the cultivation of the soil are 
opposed the extent and the strictness of the 
entails : to the improvement of the people, the 
rapidly increasing use of spirituous liquors, a 
detestable practice, which includes in its con- 
sequences almost every evil, physical and mo- 
ral. ■}■ The peculiarly social disposition of the 
Scottish peasantry exposes them to this prac- 
tice. This disposition, which is fostered by 
tlieir national songs and music, is perhaps 
characteristic of the nation at large. Though 
tiie source of many pleasures, it counteracts 
by its consequences "the effects of their patience. 



* These remarks are confined to the class of 
farmers ; the same corresponding inferiority 
will not be found in the condition of the cot- 
tagers and labourers, at least in the article of 
food, as those who examine this subject inipar- 
tiallv will soon discover. 

f 'The amount of the duty on spirits distilled 
in Scotland is now upwards of £,.250,000 an- 
nually. In 1777, it did not reach i.S, 000. 
The rate of the duty has indeed been raised, 
but, making every allowance, the increase of 
consumption must he enormous. This is in- 
dependent of the duty on malt, .StC. niuJt liquor, 
iaiporleti ^pirit^, and v. ine. 



industry, and frugality both at home nnd 
abroad, of which those especially who have 
witnessed the progress of Scotsmen in other 
countries, must have known many striking in. 

Since the Union, the manners and language 
of the people of Scotland have no longer a stan- 
dard among themselves, but are tried by the 
standard of the nation to which they are united. 
— Though their habits are far from being flexi- 
ble, yet" it is evident that their manners imd 
dialect are undergoing a rapid change. I'.sen 
the farmers of the present day appear to ha\e 
less of the peculiarities of their country in their 
speech, than the men of letters of the last srcne- 
ration. Burns, who neyer left the island, 
nor penetrated fwther into England than Car- 
lisle on the one hand, or Newcastle on the 
other, bad less of the Scottish dialect than 
Hume, who lived for many years in the best 
society of England and France ; or perhaps 
than Robertson, who wrote the English lan- 
guage in a stUe of such purity ; and if he had 
been in other" respects fitted to take a lead in the 
British House of Commons, his pronunciation 
would neither have fettered his eloquence, nor 
deprived it of its due effect. 

A striking particular in the character of the 
Scottish peasantry, is one which it is hoped 
w ill not be lost—the strength of their domestic 
attachments. The privations to which many 
parents submit for the good of their children, 
and particularly to obtain for them instruction, 
which they consider as the chief good, has 
already been noticed. If their children live and 
prospe'r, they have their certain reward, not 
merely as witnessing, but as sharing of tbeir 
prosperity. Even in the humblest ranks of the 
peasantry, the earnings of the children may 
generally be considered as at the disposal of 
tbeir parents ; perhaps in no country is so large 
a portion of the wages of labour applied to the 
support and comfort of those whose days of 
labour are past. A similar strength of attach- 
ment extends through all the domestic relations. 

Our poet partook largely of this amiable cha- 
racteristic of his humble compeers ; he was als« 
strongly tinctured with another striking feature 
which "belongs to them,— a partiality for his 
native country, of which many proofs may be 
found in his writingis. This, it must be con- 
fessed, is a very strong and general sentiment 
among the natires of Scotland, dift'ering how- 
ever in its character, according to the character 
of the different minds in whicti it is found ; in 
some appearing a selfish prejudice, in others a 
generous affection. 

An attachment to the land of their birth is, 
indeed, common to all men. It is found among 
the inhalitants of every region of the eartJi, 
from the arctic to the antarctic circle, in all the 
vast variety of climate, of surface, of civiliza- 
I tion. To analyze th's general s-'' 



through the ii 
the primary afl'ection in which it has its source, 
would neither be a difficult nor unpleasing la- 
bour. On the first consideration of the subject, 
we should perhaps expect to find this attach- 
ment strong in proportion to the physical 
advantage of the soil ; but inquiry, far from 
confirming this supposition, seems rather to 
lead to an opposite conclusion. — In those fertik 



Bt'RXS.— PiiKf.i lOH T REMARKS. 



wants, patriotism, as well as every other gene- 
rous sentiment, seems weak and languid. In 
countries less richly endowed, where the com- 
forts, and even necessaries of life, must be pur- 
chased by patient toil, the atiections of the 
mind, as the faculties of the understanding, 
improve under exertion, and patriotism flour- 
ishes amidst its kindred virtues. Where it is 
necessary to combine for mutual defence as well 
as for the supply of comnioii wauls, mutual 
good-will springs from mutual diliiculties and 
labours, the social atiections unfold themselves, 
and extend from the men with whom we live, 
to the soil in which we tread. It will perhaps 
be found, indeed, that our affections cannot be 
originally called forth, but by objects capable, 
or supposed capable, of feeling our sentiments, 
and of returning them ; but when once excited 
they are strengthened by exercise — they are ex- 
panded by the powers of imagination, and seize 
more especially on those inanimate parts of 
creation, which form the theatre on which we 
have first felt the alternations of joy and sorrow, 
and first tasted the sweets of synipathy and 
regard. If this reasoning be just, (lie love of 
our country, although modified, and even ex- i 
tinguished in individuals by the chances and 
changes of life, may be presumed, in our gen- 
eral reasonings, to be strong among a people, 
in proportion to their social, and more especi- 
ally to their domestic affections. In free 
governments it is found more active than in 
despotic ones, because, as the individual be- 
comes of more consequence in the community, 
the community becomes of more consequence to 
hini ; in small states it is generally more active 
than in large ones, for the same reason, and 
also because the independence of a small com- 
munity being maintained with difnculty, and 
frequently endangered, sentiments of patriot- 
ism are more frequently excited. In mountain- , 
ous countries it is generally found more active 
than in plains, because there the necessities of 
life often require a closer union of the inhabi- j 
tants ; and more especially because in such 
countries, though less populous than plains, the 
inhabitants, instead of being scattered equally j 
over the whole, are usually divined into small ' 
communities on the sides of liieir separate val- I 
If^s, and on the banks of their respective i 
stri'iims : situations well calculated to call forth ! 
fend to concentrate the social atiections amidst ; 
scenery that acts most powerfully on the sight, 
end makes a lasting impression on the memory. 
It icaj also be remarked, that mountainous 



, couctries are often poculiaily calculated ta 
I nourish sentiments of national pride and inde- 
pendence, from the influence of history on the 
afl'ections of the mind. In such countries, 
from their natural strength, inferior nationa 
have maintained their independence against 
their more powerful neighbours, and valour, 
in all ages, has made Us most successful 
effort against oppression. Such countries 
present the fields of battle, where the tide of 
invasion was rolled back, and where the ashes 
•f those rest, who have died in defence of their 
nation ! 

The operation of the various causes we have 
mentioned is doubtless more general and more 
permanent, where the scenery of a country, 
the peculiar manners of its inhabitants, and 
the martial achievements of their ancestors are 
embodied in national sougs, and united to na- 
tional music. By this combination, the ties 
that attach men to the land of their birth are 
multiplied and strengthened ; and the images of 
infancy strongly associating with the generous 
atiections, resist the influence of time, and of 
new impressions ; they often survive in coua- 
► tries far distant, and amidst far different scenes, 
to the latest periods of life, to soothe the heart 
with the pleasures of memory, when those of 
hope die away. 

if this reasoning be just, it will explain to us 
why, among the natives of Scotland, even of 
cultivated minds, we so generally find a partial 
attachment to the land of their birth, and wiiy 
this is so strongly discoverable in the writings 
of Burns, who joined to the higher powers oi 
the understanaiijg the most ardent aftections. 
Let not men of reflection think it a superfluous 
labour to trace the rise and progress of a char 
acter like his. Born in the condition of a 
peasant, he rose by the force of his mind into 
distinction and influence, and in his works has 
exhibited what are so rarely found, the 
charms of original genius. With a deep in- 
sight into the human heart, his poetrv exlii- 
bits high powers of imagination— it di'splaysj 
and as it were embalms, the peculiar mai;.i"er» 
of his country ; and it may be considered as u 
:, not to his own name only, but to 
expiring genius of an ancient and once iii- 
eudeut nation. In relating the incidents of 
life, candour will prevent us from dwelliu;; 
lOiously on those faults and failings which 
ice forbids us to conceal ; we will tread 
itl\ over hia yet warm ashes, and re&peot 
iuurels that shelter his antimelj grave. 



LIFE 

OF 

ROBERT BURNS. 



BOBERT BURNS was, as is well ki 
•oa of » former in Ayrshire, and afterwards 
bimseif a farmer there ; but, having been ui 
censfui, he was about to emigrate to Jam 
He had previously, however, attracted 
notice .by hi« poetical talents in the vicinity 
where he lived ; and having published a small 
▼olume of bis poems at Kilmarnock, this drev 
upon him more general attention. In conse- 
quence of the encouragement he received, hi 
repaired to Edinburgh, and there published, by 
Kubecription, an improved and enlarged edition 
of his poems, which met with extraordinary 
success. By the profits arising from the sale 
of this edition, he was enabled to enter on a 
farm in Dumfries-shire; and having married a 
person to whom he had been long attached, he 
r.'tired to devote the remainder of his life to 
e^'riculture. He was again, however, unsuc- 
cf;;.sful ; and, abandoning his farm, he removed 
iiJto the town of Dumfries, where he filled an 
inferior office in the excise, and where he ter- 
lujiiated his life in July, 1796, in his thirtj- 
ei;:hih year. 

The strength and originality of his genius 
procured him the notice of many persons dis- 
tinguished in the republic of letters, and, among 
oibwrs, fliat of Dr Mo<-.re, well known for his 
Viexcs of Hocicli/ and Manners en the Conthieiit 
of Europe, for his Zeluco, and various other 
works. To this gentleman our poet addressed 

letter, after his lirst visit to Edinburgh, giv- 
ing a history of his life, up to the period of his 
writing. In a composition never intended to 
see the light, elegance or perfect correctness of 
composition will not be expected. These, how- 



life, unfold the peculiarities of his character 
with all the careless vigoor and open sincerity 
tfhism'nd. 

•• Sir, Mauchline, 2d Aug7t$t, 1787 

♦« For some months past I have been ram- 
bling over the country ; but I am now conbaed 
with Bom« lingering complaints, originating, 
as I take it, in the stomach. To divert my 
spirits a little in tin.-- miserable fog of ennui, I 
have taken a whim to give you a liistory of 
myself. JMy name ha« made some little noise 
til this country ; you have don« me the honotur 
to iuteresl yourself very wai'mijr in my behalf { 



and I think a faithful ncconnt of whaf ohc.roa 
ter of a man I am, and how I came l.i Uial 
character, may perhaps amuse you in an idle 
moment. I will give you an honest iiarrauve ; 
though I know it wi'll be often at my own 
expense; — for I assure you, sir, 1 have, like 
Solomon, whose character, except in the trilling 
affair of icisdom, I sometimes think 1 resemble, 
— I have, I say, like him, turned viy eyes to 
behold madness and folly, and like him, too, 
frequently shaken hands with their intoxicating 
friendship. . . . After you have perused 
these pages, should you think them trilling and 
impertinent, I only beg leave to tell you, that 
the poor author wrote them under some twitch- 
ing qualms of conscience, arising from a suspi. 
cion that he was doing what he ought not to 
do ; a predicameut he has more than once been 

'• I have not the most distant pretensions to 
assume that character which the pye coated 
guardians of escutcheons call a Gentlemuiu 
When at Edinburgh last winter, 1 got ac- 
quainted in the Herald's Office; and, looking 
through that granary of honours, 1 there found 
almost every name in the kingdom, but for me, 

" iWy ancient but ignoble blood 
Has crept through scoundrels ever since the 
Hood." 

Gules, purpure, argent, &c. quite disowned me. 
•• »y father was of the north of Seotlaud, 
le son of a farmer, and was thrown by early 
isf'ortunes on the world at large ; when?, 
after many years' wanderings and scjournings, 
he picked up a pretty large quantity of obser- 
vation and experience, to which I am indebted 
or most of my little pretensions to wisdom— 1 
lave met with few who understood nun, their 
!, and Iheir ways, equal to him ; but 
ibborn, nngainly integrity, and headlong, 
governable irascibility, are disqualifying cir- 
nstances; consequently I was born a very 
poor man's son- For the first six or seven 
years of my life, my father was a gardener to a 
worthy gentleman of small estate in the neigh- 
bourhood of Ayr. Had he continued in thai 
■tntioii, I must have marched off to be one of 
the little underlings about a farm-house ; but 
it was his dearest wish and prayer to have it iu 
kis power to keep his children under bis ev^A 



18 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY 



eye till they could discern between goo5 and 
evil ; so, with the assistance of his generous 
Piaster, my father ventured on a small farm on 
Lis estate. At those years I was by no meaiis 
a faTourite with any l>ody. I was a good deal 
noted for a retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy 
something in my disposition, and an cEthusi- 
astic idiot piety. I say idiot piety, because I 
was then but a child- Though it cost the 
bciioolmaster some thrashings, I made an 
excellent English scholar ; and by the time I 
was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in 
substantives, verbs, and participles. Li my 
infant and iioyish days, too, I owed much to an 
old woman -.vbo resided ic the family, remarka- 
ble for ber ignorance, credulity, and supersti- 
tion. She had, I suppose, the largest collection 
in the country of tales and sougs concerning 
devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, war- 
locks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead- 
lights, wraiths, apparitions, caiitraips, giants, 
enchanted towers, dragons, and other trum. 
pery. This cultivated the latent seeus of 
poetry; but had so sUo.'i? an efl'ect on my 
imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturual 
rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp look-out 
in suspicious places ; and though nobody can 
be more sceptical than I am in such matters, 
jet it often takes an effort of philosophy to 
shake otr" these idle terrors. The earliest 
composition that I recollect taking pleasure in, 
was The Vision .if Mirzn, and a hyuin of 
Addison's, beginning. How are thy si'ti-am.'i 
blest, O Lord .' I particularly remember one 
balf-stauza which was music to my boyish 



I met with these pieces in Mason's EiisUsh 
Cotlection, one of my school-books. The two 
tirst books I ever read in private, and which 
ga^e me more pleasure than any two hooks I 
ever read since, were, 2'Ae LifJ of HrmmbaJ., 
and The History of Sir WiUian Walhcs. 
Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, 
that I used to strut in raptures up and down 
after the recruiting drum and bag-pipe, and 
wish myself tall enough to be a soldier ; while 
the story of Wallace poured a Scottish pre- 
judice into my veins, which will boil along 
there till the flood-gates of life shut in eternal 
rest, i 

" Polemical divinity about this time was i 
putting the country half- mad ; and 1, ambitious | 
of shining in conversation parties on Suaaav^, | 
between sermons, at funerals, Ac. used, a few 
years afterwards, to puzzle Calvinism with so I 
much heat and indiscretion, that 1 raised a hue 1 
and cry of heresy against me, which has not 
ceased to this hour. 

'• My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage 
to me. My social disposition, when not checked 
by some modification of spirited pride, was, 
i.ke our catechism-delinition of infinitude, 
u-ithout bounds or limits. I formed severe' con- 
nections with other younters who possessed ] 
superior advantages, the younslin^ actors, who 
were busy in the rehearsal of parts in which 
t/'iey were shortly to appear on the stasre of iil'e, 
v.-tiere, alas I I was destined to drudge behind 

«ge that our voang gentry have a just nenae of 



the immense distance between tliem and their 
ragged play-fellows. It takes a few dashes 
into the world, to give the young great man 
that proper, decent, nnnoticing disregard for 
the poor, insigniticant, stupid devils, the 
mechanics and peasantry around him, who 
were perhaps born in the same village. My 
young superiors never insulted the clouterlt/ 
appearance of nsy plough-boy carcase, the two 
extremes of which were often exposed to all the 
inclemencies of the seasons. They would give 
me stray volumes of books : among them, even 
then, I could pick up some observations ; and 
one, whose heart I am sure not even the Munny 
Begum scenes have tainted, helped me to a little 
French. Parting with these my young friends 
and beuefactors, as they occasionally went off 
for the East or West Indies, was often to me a 
sore affliction ; but 1 was soon called to more 
serious evils. My father's generous master 
died ; the farm proved a ruinous bargain ; 
and, to clench the misfortune, we fell into the 
hands of a factor, who sat for the pictnre I 
have drawn of one in my Tale of Twa Do^s. 
My father was advancetf in life when he mar- 
ried ; I was the eldest of seven children ; and 
he, worn out by early hardships, was unfit for 
labour. My father's spirit was soon irritated, 
but not easily broken. There was a freedom in 
his lease in two years more ; and to weather 
these two years, we retrenched our expenses. 
^Ve lived -Jery poorly ; 1 was a dexterous 
ploughman for my age ; and the next eldest to 
me was a brother (Gilbert) who could drive 
the plough very well, and help me to thrash 
the corn. A novel -writer might perhaps Isavo 
^-iewed these scenes with some satisfaction ; 

the recollection of the s 1 factor's insolent 

threatening letters which used to set us all in 

" This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a 
hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley- 
slave, brought me to ray sixteenth year ; a littia 
before which period I first committed the sin of 
Rhyme. You know our country custom <rf 
coupling a man and woman together as part- 
ners in the labours of harvest. In mj 
fifteenth autumn my partner was a bewitching 
creature a year younger than myself. My 
scarcity of English denies me the power of 
doing her justice in that language ; but yoa 
know the Scottish idiom— she was a bonnie, 
Knjcet, sonsie (ass. In short, she altogether, 
ui wittingly to herself, initiated me in that 
deh'ious passion, which, in spite of acid dis- 
appiintment, giu-horse prudence, and book- 
worm philosophy, I hold to be the tirst of 
human joys, our dearest blessing here below ! 
How she caught the contagion, I canuot tell : 
you medical people talk much of infection from 
breathing the same air, the touch, &c. ; but I 
never expresslv said I loved her. Indeed, I 
did not know myself why I liked so much to 
loiter behind with her, when returning in the 
evening from our labours ; why the tones of 
her voice made my heart-strings thrill like an 
yEoliaa harp : and'particularly why my pulse 
beat such a furious ratan when I looked and 
fingered over her lif.le hand to pick out th« 
cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her 
other love-inspiri"ug qualities, she sung sweetly ; 
and it was her favourite reel, to which I 
attempted giving an embodied vehicle in rbymb. 



BURNS — LIFE. 



13 



1 was not so presumptnons as to imagine that I 
eould make verses like priuted ones, composed 
by men who had Greek aud Latin ; but my <jirl 
sung a song, which was said to be composed 
by a small country laird's son, on one of Lis 
father's maids, with whom he was in love! 
and 1 saw no reason why I might not rhyme 
as well as he ; for, excepting that lie oould 
smear sheep, aud cast peats, his father living 
in the moorlands, he had no more schoiar-cratt 
than myself.* 



* It may interest some persons to peruse the 
first poetical production of our Bard, and 
therefore extracted from a kind of coniii 
place book, which he seems to have begu; 
his twentieth year ; and which he entitled, j 
*« Observalioiis, Huits, So7i.gs, Scraps of 
Poetry, <J-e. by Robert Burness. a man who 
had little art in making money, and slill less in 
keeping it ; but was, however, a man of some 
sense, a great deal of honesty, and unboundeu 
good-will to every creature, rational or irra- 
tional. As he was but little indebted to a 
scholastic education, and bred at a plough-lail, 
his performances must be strongly tinctured 
with his unpolished rustic way of life ; but as, 1 
believe, they are really his own, it may be some 
entertainment to a curious observer of human 
nature, to see how a ploughman thinks aud 
feels, under the pressure of love, ambition, 
anxiety, grief, with the like cares and passions, 
which, however diversibed by the modes aud 
manners of life, operate pretty much alike, 1 
belieTe, in all the species. ' ' 

*' Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to 

trace. 

The forms our pencil or onr pen design 'd. 

Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face. 

Such the soft image of our youthful mind. " 

Shcnsione. 

This MS. book, to which our poet prefixed 
this account of himself, and of his intention in 
preparing it, contains several of his earlier 



Tune,— " la 



a unmarried. " 



O, once I loved a bonnie lass. 

Ay, and I love her still. 
And whilst that virtue warms my breas 

I'll love my handsome Nell. 

2'aZ led de ral. 

As bonnie lasses I hae seen. 

And mony full as braw. 
But for a modest gracefu' mien 

'Ihe like 1 never saw. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess, 

Is pleasant to the e'e. 
But without some better qualities 



" Thus wi(h me began love and poetry . 
which at times have been my only, and tiW. 
within the last twelve months have been m» 
highest enjoyment. Rly father struggled on till 
he reacOed the freedom in his lease, when hs 
entered on a larger farm, about ten miles far- 
ther in the country, 'the nature of the bargain 
he made was such as to throw a little ready 
money into his hands at the commencement of 
his lease: otherwise the ati'air would have been 
impracticable. For four years we lived com- 
fortably here ; but a ditierence commencing 
between him and his landlord, as to terms, 
after three years tossing and whirling in the 
vortex of litigation, my father was just saved 
from the horrors of a jail by a consumption, 
which, after two years' promises, kinUly 
steppeti in, and can-ied him awa^, to where the 
ivicktd cease from IroubLiLi, and where the 
weary are at rest. 

'• It is during the time that we lived on this 
farm that my little story is most eventful. I 
was, at the beginning of this period, perhaps 
the most ungainly, awkward boy in the parish 
— no solitaire was less acquainted with the 
ways of the world. WTiat I knew of ancient 
story vs as gathered from Salmon 's and GuUiritf 's 
geographical grammars ; and the ideas I had 
formed of modern manners, of literature, and 
criticism, 1 got from the Spfclalor. 'I'hese, 
with Pope's Worlds, some plavs of Shakspecre, 
TuU and Dickson on A^-icuUurt, the Paidhton, 
Locke's Essay on tlie Human Uuderstaiiding^ 
Sturkhouse's History of thf Bible, Justice's 
British Gardener's Dirtctory, Bayle's Lec- 
tures, Aiian Ravtsay's Wo-ks. Taylor's Sci-ip- 
ture DccU-ii)£ of Original &in, A SeUct Collec 
Uon of English Sonus, and Henry's Meditations, 
had formed the whole of my reading. The 
collection of soi.gs was my vade meziim, I 
pored over them driving my cart, or wa, king to 
labour, song by song, verse by verse ; carefully 
noting the true tender, or sublime, from aiiec- 
tation and fustian. 1 am convinced I owe to 
this practice much of my critic craft, such aa 

" In my seventeenth year, to give my man- 
ners a brush, I went to a country dancing- 
school.— My father had an unaccountable anti- 
pathy against these meetings ; and my going 

-J, wlwt to this moment 1 repent, in opposi- 



She dresses aye sae clean and neat. 

Both decent and genteel ; 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look weel. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 

May slightly touch the heart. 
But it's innocence and modesty 

That polishes the daru 

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 

'Tis this enchants my soul ; 
For absolutely in my breast 

She reigns without controL 

Tal Id de ral, ^-c. 

It must be confessed that these lines give n 
indication of the future genius of Burns ; Lu 
he himself seems to have been fond of th«m 
probably from the recollections Ihey jxcileU. 



14 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRA&Y. 



tien lo his wishes. My father, as I said 
before, was subject to strong passiooa ; from 
that instanc« of disobedience ia me, he took a 
•nrt of dislike to me, which I believe was one 
cause of the dissipation which marked my s'jc- 
C€<Hiincr jears, I say dissipation, comparatirely 
with the strictness, and sobriety, and resularity 
of Presbyterian country life; for thoQfh the 
Will o' Wisp meteors of thoughtless whim 
were almost the sole lights of my path, yet early 
ingrained piety and virtue kept" me {o\ several 
years afterwards within the line of innocenca. 
The great misfortune of my life was to want aa 
aim. I bad felt early some stirring's of ambi- 
tion, but they were the blind gropinss of 
Homer s Cyclops round the walls of his cave. 
I fiw my father's situation emailed on me per- 
petual labour. The only two openings by which 
I could enter the temple of Fortune, was the 
pate of niggardly economy, or the path of little 
chicaning bargain-making. The first is so 
contracted an aperture, I never could squeeze 
myself into it }— the laat I always hated — there 
was contamination in toe very entrance I Thus 
abandoned of aim or vi'jw in life, with a strong 
appetite for sociability, as well from native 
hilarity, as from a pride of observation and 
remark: a consiitutii.nal melanchoiy or hypo- 
ehondriasm that made me fly solitude; add to 
the=e incentives to <ocial life, my reputation for 
bookish knowledge, a certain wild logical 
talent, and a strensth of thought, somethinij 
like the rlIdiment^ of sood sense; and it will 
not seem surprisinj that I was generally a wel- 
come guest where I visited, or any great wonder 
that, aivvays where two or three riiet together, 
there was I among them. But far beyond all 
other impulses of my heart, was un penchaiU a 
Vadorable moitie iu genre humaiTU My heart 
was eompietely tinder, and was eternally lighted 
up by some goddess or other; and as in every 
other warfare in this world my fortune was 
various, somotimes I was received with favour, 
ai;d sometimes 1 was mortified with a repulse. 
At the plough, scythe, or reap hook, 1 feared 
no competitor, and thus I set absolute want at 
defiance ; and as I never cared farther for my 
labours than while I was in actual exercise, I 
spent ihe evenings in the way after my own 
heart. A couinry lad seldom carries on a love 
adventure without an assisting confidant. I 
possessed a curiosity, teal, and intrepid dex- 
terity, that recorameniled lue as a proper second 
on these occasions ; and I dare say, I felt as 
much pleasure in being in the secret of half the 
loves of the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did 
etalesman in knowiug the intrigues of half the 
courts of Europe. — The very goose-feather in 
my hand seems to know instinctively the well- 
worn path of my imagination, the favourite 
theme of my song; and in with difficulty 
restrained from giving yoa ft couple of para- 
graphs on the love adventarss of my compeers, 
the humble inmates of the farm-house and cot- 
tage ; but '.he grave sons of science, ambition, 
or avarice, baptise these things by the name of 
follies. To the «oos and daugbtert of labour 
and poverty, ihey art matters of ths most 
serious na'ure; to them, the ardent Lope, the 
stolen interview, the tender farewell, ar« the 
greatest acd .Ci,s." delioioiis parts of their 

•' Another eircurastance in my lit* which 
V ade same elteraiioa Iu m; miod and mannerst 



was, that I spent mj ninete^lh Bummtt on a 
smuggling coast, a good uistaaee tnm honie, 
at a noted school, to learn mensoration, survov. 
ing, dialling, &c. in which I made a pretty 
good progress. But I made a greater progress 
in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband 
trade was at that time very successful, and it 
sometimes happened to me to fall ia with those 
who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering r>ot 
end roaring dissipation were till thta time new 
to me; but I was no enemy to social life. 
Here, though I learnt to fill my glass, and lo 
mix without fear in a druiikec squabble, yet I 
went on with a high band with my geometry, 
till the sun entered Virgo, a moa'.h which \a 
always a carnival in my bwom, when a charm- 
ing JUette who lived next door to the schoul, 
overset ray trigonometry, and sent me off at a 
tangent from the sphere of my studies. I, 
however, struggled on with my riTiei and co' 
sines, fur a few days more ; but stepping i:ito 
the garden one charming noon to take thexun's 
altitude, there I met my an^el. 



" It was in Tain to think of doing any more 
good at school. The remaining week I staid. I 
did nothing but craze the faculties of my r(,at 
about her, or steal out to meet her ; and the last 
two nights of my slay in the country, had sleep 
been a mortal sin, the image of this modest and 
innocsut girl had kept me guiltless. 

•* I returned home very considerably improv. 
ed. i^ly reading was enlarged with t!ie ^'^^y 
important addition of Thomson's and S',.-n. 
stone's Works ; 1 bad seen human nature m » 
new phasist and I engaged sereral of my 
school-fellows to keep up a literary corresjXT,. 
dence with me. This improved me in conipi.-i- 
tion. I had met with a collection of letters by 
the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and I pcred 
over them most devoutly ; I kept copies of any 
of my own letters that pleased me; and a com- 
parison between them and the composition jf 
most of my correspondents flattered my vanitv. 
I carried this whim so far, that though 1 h d 
not three farthings worth of business in the 
world, yet almost every post broagbt me aa 
many letters as if I had keen a broad plodding 
son of day-book and ledger. 

" Sly life flowed on much in the same courso 
till my twenty-third year. Fji<e Vanwtir. et 
rive la bagatelle, were my sole principles of ac- 
tion. The addition of two more anthors to tny 
library gave me great pleasure ; Sterne and 
il'Kenxie — Tristram Skarjiy and The Man of 
Feeling — were my bosom favourites. Poesy wm 
still a darling walk for my mind ; but it was 
only indulged in according to the bcmour of 
tbe hour. 1 had csually half a dot en or more 
pieces on hand ; I took up one or other, as it 
suited the momentary tone of the mind, and 
dismissed the work as it bordered ou fatigue. 
>ly passions, when once lighted up, raged like 
so many devils, till they got vent la ihrroe ; 
and then the conning over aty vefsee, hke a 
spell, soothed all into (jniet I None of the 
rhymes of tbose days are in print, except >*''h- 
ter, a Dirg<, the eldest of my printed niMe* > 
Th^ Death of Poor Mailie, J»hn Bw '.n/~ 
com, and Songs, first, second, and third. 
Soas secoiid was tbe ebuliitioa of that pasbiua 



BURNS — LIFE. 



15 



which mdti the forementioned school bnaU : 

** My hventy-thh^ year was to'ins an impor- I 
taut era. Partly through whim, aad partly that I 
I wUhed to set ^buut doing somatiiing iu life, I 
joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouriog town ; 
(Irvin*) to learn hu trade. This was an en- { 

lueWy aiTair. Mj } and. to finiih 

the wtiole, 89 we were giving a welcon:;3g ; 
caruusal to tbe new year, the shop took Qre, i 
and burnt to ashes ) and I was left liie a true | 
poet, not werth a lixpecee. i 

•* I was obliped to gi>e up this scheme t the 
oloud» of misfortune were gathering thick ; 
round my father's head; and what was worst 
of all, he was visibly far pne in a consucip- j 
tioQ ; and to crown my distresses, a beV^ Jii» 
whom I adored, and who bad pledged her tool 
to meet me in the tieid of matrimony, jilted me, 
with peculiar circume^tances of murliliuatiou. 
The finishing evil that brought up the rear of 
this infernal file, was, my ooDstitutionat melau- 
eholy being increased to such a degree, that 
for three months I was in a state of miud 
scarcely to be envied by the hopeless wretches 
who have got their mittimua — Depart from me, 
ye accurtcd ! 

** From this adveature, I learned something 
of a town life; but tbe principal thins which 
gave my mind a turn, was afriend-»A-p I formed 
with a young fellow, a very aot>n character, 
but a hapless son of misfortune. He was the 
son of a simple mechanic ; bat a great man in 
the neighbourhood taking him tuider his pniron 
age, gave him a genteel education, with a view 
of bettering his situation iu life. The patron 
dying rust afi he was ready to launch out into 
the world, the poor fellow in despair went to 
sea ; where after a variety of good and ill for- 
tune, a little before I was acquainted with him, 
he had been set ashore b^ an American priva- 
teer, on the wild coast of Connaught, stripped of 
every thing. I cannot quit this poor fellow's 
story, without adding, that be is at this time 
master of R large West Indiaman belongii^g to 
the Thames. 

♦• His mind was fought with independence, 
magnanimity, and every manly virtue. 1 loved 
and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm, 
and of course strove to imitate him. In some 
measure, I succeeded ; 1 had pride before, but 
he taught it to flow in proper channels. Hi* 
knowledge of the world was vastly superior to 
vine, and I was all attention to learn. He was 
the only man I ever saw, who was a greater 
fot|pk'ian myself, where woman was the pre- 
eidiiig Ktar ; bat he spoke of illicit love with the 
levity of a sailor, which hitherto I had regarded 
with horror. Here his friendship did me a 
nVschief; and the consequence was that soon 
after I resumed tbe plough, I wrote the Foei 'n 
Welcome.* My reading only increased, while 
in this town, by two stray volnmes of Famfia aua 
one of Ferdinand Count Ftihom, which ?a»e -j^t 
some idea of novels. Ubyme, except some 
rsjigious piecns :hat are la nrint, I h»A givea 
sp; bat BSMting with J^«rgtu<w'i ScaauA 
Peevik, I strung an** my wildly-«o«odiE^ lyre 
with etnol^iing vigtMiT. Whta my father dkeo^ 



»'• Welcome to hi* Baitwd 



his all went among the hell.honnds that giow! 
In the kennel of justice ; but we made a shift Ur 
collect a little money in the family amongst us, 
with which, to keep us together, my brother 
and I took a neietibouriiig farm. My brother 
wanted my hair- brained imagination, as well 
as my social and amorous madness j but in good 
sei.se, and every sober qualification, he was fa* 
my superior. 

'• 1 entered on this farm with a full resola. 
tion. Come, go to, 1 will be voiu ' I read farnj- 
ing books ; I calculated crops } I itteuded mar- 
kets ; and in short, io spite of the devU, an-i Uu>. 
world, and t/ie fesh, 1 believe I should hava 
been a wise man, but tbe first year from unfor- 
tuuately buying bad seed, the second, from n 



late Ldi 



i lost half ( 



Thiji 



all my wisdom, and I returned, lilce the 
dog (e Ms votnit, and tke so%d thai xoas \cctKed tp 
her tcaiUnettig in the mire.f 



■f At the time that our poet took the reso1ntioT\ 
of becoming unse, he procured a little book ot 
blank paper, with tbe purpose (expressed in th« 
first page) of making m»mor»ndumi upon it.. 
These farming memoraudums are curioui 
enough; many of them have been written wilt 
a pencil, aud are now obliterated, or at leasr 
illegible, A considerable number are howevpk 
legible, and a specimen mav gratify the reader 
It must be prsmised, that the poet kept the boo« 
by him for several yearv—that he wrote upon 'V 
here and there, with the utmost irregularity, 
and that on the same page are notatiorii very 
distant from each other as to time and plave. 



EXTEMPORE. AprU, 1782. 

why the deuce should I repine. 

And be an ill foreboder f 
I'm twenty-three, and live feet nine— 

I'll go aud be a sodger. 



withn 



eikle care. 



I gat some gear w..- ,-.-. 

I held it weel thegither -, 
But now it's gane, and something d 

I'll gt> and be a sodger. 



FRAGMENT. Tune—' Donald Blue. 

O leave novels, ye itlBQchline belles, 
Ye're safer at your spinning wlit*! ; 

Such witchint; books are baited hcoUs 
For rakish rooks like Rob Mossgieh 

Sing talf lal, lay, 4'e> 



They make jont jrouthful fi 
Juey neat yocr brains, and fi , 
And then yoo're prey for Rob Mosxgiel. 

Bi'ware a tongne that's smoothly hung ; 

A heart that warmly seeks to feel ; 
That feeling heart but acts- a part, 

T^ lakibh art in Rob MossgieL 



16 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



•• I now began to be known in the neijhbour- 
hoofl as a maker of rhyites. The lirst of my 
poetic offspring that saw the light, was a bur- 
lesque lamentation on a quarrel between two 
fpverend CalWnists, both of them dramatis per- 
soruB in my Holy Fair. I had a notion myself, 
that the piece had some merit ; but to prevent 
the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend who 
was very fond of such things, and told him tliat 
I could not guess who was the author of it. but 
that I thought it pretty clever. With a certain 
description of the clergy, as well as la.ity, it met 
w ith a roar of applause. Holy milie 's Prayer 
ti'Xl made its appearance, and alarmed the 
kirk-sessiou so much, that they held several 
nifeiings to look over their spiritual artillery, if 
haply any of it might be pointed against profane 
rhymers. Unluckily for me, my wanderings 
led me on another side, within point blank shot 
of their heaviest metal. This is the unfortunate 
story that gave rise to my printed poem. The 
liamenU This was a mo'st melancholy affair, 
which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had 
»ery nearly given me one or two of the principal 
qualitications for a place among those who have 
lost the chart, and mistaken the reckoning of 



Mem, — To get for Mr Johnston these two 

So^.e-s: 

' Mollyt MnHy, my dear honey. ' — « The cock 
and Lrie heti, the deer in hsi- de/i,' ic 



Ah ! Chlons I Sir Peter Halket of Pitferran, 
the author. — Note, he married her — the heiress 
of Pitferran, 

Colonel George Crawford, the author of Doicn 
U:e B/im, Davy. 

Piiikey IvoiLse, by J. Mitchell. 

Mij apron Dury I and Amynta, by Sir G. 
El iot. 

Willie teas a wanlon Wag, was made on 
Walkinshawof Walkinshaw. near Paisiev. 

/ lo'e na a laddie but aiie, Mr Clunzee. ' 

The bonnie wee fAiVzj— beautiful — Lundie^s 
D'Tam —very beajtiful. 

Hi till't and she iitl't — as.«ez bien, 

Armstrong's Farewell — fine. 

n he author of the Highland Queen was a Mr 
W Iver, purser of the Soibay. 

Ffe and a' the land abo.t it, R. Fersuson. 

The author of The Bush aboon Traquair was 
a Dr Stewart. 

Polwart on the Green, composed by Captain 
John Drummond M'Greffor, of Boehaliiie. 

A/em.— To inquire if Mr Cockburn was the 
author of /Aa'e seen the smiliiLg, ice. 



Rationality.* I gave up my parJ of the farm 
to my brother ; in truth it was only nomiaally 
mine ; and made what little preparation was in 
my power for Jamaica. But, before leaving 
my native country for ever, I resolved to publish 
my poems. I weighed my productions as 
impartially as was in my power: £ thought 
tbey had merit ; and it was a delicious idea 
that I should be called a clever fellow, even 
though it should never reach n^y ears — a poor 
negro-driver, — or perhaps a victim to that 
inhospitable clime, and gone to the world of 
spirits I I can truly say, that pauvre inconnu 
as I then was, I hacl pretty nearly as high an 
idea of myself and my works as I have at this 
moment, when the pnblic has decided in their 
favour. It ever was my opinion, that the mis- 
takes and blunders, both in a rational and reli- 
gious point of view, of which we see thousands 
daily guilty, are owing to their ignorance of 
themselves. To know myself, had been all 
along my constant study. I weighed mysef 
alone ; I balanced myself with others ; I watch- 
ed every means of information, to see how much 
ground I occupied as a man and as a poet : 1 
studied assiduously nature's design in my for- 
mation — where the lights and shades in my 
character were intended. I was pretty confident 
my poems would meet with some applause: but 
at the worst, the roar of the Atlantic would 
deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty of 
West Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I 
threw off six hundred copies, of which I had 
got subscriptions for about three hundred and 
lifiy. My vanity was highly gratified by the 
reception 1 met with from the public ; and be- 
sides I pocketed, all expenses deducted, nearly 
twenty pounds. This sum came very season- 
ably, as 1 was thinking of indenting myself, 
for want of money to procure my passage. As 
soon as I was master of nine guineas, the price 
of wafiin? tne to the torrid zone, I took a steer- 
ase pn:i<a^e in the first ship that was to sail 
from the Clyde ; for 



' Hungry r 



1 had me in the wind." 



" I had been for some days skulking from 
covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail ; 
as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the 
merciless pack of the law at my heels. ( had 
taken the last farewell of my few friends ; my 
chest was on the road to Greenock ; I had com- 
posed the last song I should ever measure in 
Caledonia, The gloomy nishi is gathering fast, 
when a letter from Dr Blacklock, to a friend of 
mine, overthrew all my schemes, by opening 
new prospects to my poetic ambition. The 
Doctor belonged to a set of critics, for whose 
anplau'^e I had not dared to hope. His opinion 
that I would meet with encouragement in l-:d;n- 
burjh for a second edition, fired me so much, 
ihit away T posted for that city, without a 
sinele acqoaintance. or a single ittter of intra. 
duction. The baneful star that had so long sh--d 
its blastins influence ia my zenith, for once 
made a revolution to the nadir ; and a kind 
Provndence placed me under the patronasre of 
one of the noblest of men, the Earl of Uien- 



The above may serve as a specimen. 
•iote« ou farming are obliterated. 



■ An explanation of this will be font 



BURNS.— LIFE. 



IT 



c«ira. Oublie mot, Grand Dieu, si jamais je 

'• I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh : 
waa in a new world ; I mingled among man; 
classes of men, but all of them new to me, and 
1 was all attention to catch the characters and 
l/ie manners living as they rise. 'VVhethe 
have profited, time will show. 



"My most respectful compliments to Miss 
W. Her very elegant and friendly letter I 
cannot answer at present, as my presence is 
requisite in Edinburgh, and I set out to-mor- 



At the period of our poet's death, his bro- 
ther, Gilbert Burns, was ignorant that be had 
himself written the foregoing narrative of his 
life while iu Ayrshire ; and having been ap- 
plied to by Mrs Dunlop for some memoirs of 
his brother, he complied with her request in a 
letter, from which the following narrative is 
chiefly extracted. When Gilbert Burns after- 
■wards saw the letter of our poet to l>r Moore, 
he made some annotations upon f , wnich shall 
be noticed as we proceed. 

Robert Burns was born on the 29th day of 
January, 1759, in a small house about two 
miles from the town of Ayr, and within a few 
hundred yards of Alloway Church, which his 
poem of Tarn o' Skanter has rendered immor- 
tal, j The name which the poet and his bro. 
ther modernized into Burns, was originally 
Burnes or Burness. Their fathei , WiUiam 
Burnes, was the son of a farmer in Kincardine- 
shire, and had received the education common 
in Scotland to persons in his condition of life : 
he could read and write, and had some know- 
ledge of arithmetic His family having fallen 
into reduced circumstances, he was compelled 
to leave his home in his nineteenth year, and 
turned his steps towards the south in quest of 
a livelihood. The same necessity attended his 
elder brother Robert. " I have often heard 
my father, " says Gilbert Burus, in his letter 
to Mrs Dunlop, " describe the anguish of mind 
he felt when they parted on the top of a liill on 
the confines of their native place, "ich going 
off his several way in search of new aaventures, 
and scarcely knowing whither he went. My 
/ather undertook to act as a gardener, and shap- 
ed his course to Edinburgh, where he wrought 



*'There are various copies of tl4» l«»ter, in 
the author's hand-writing; and one "f these, 
evidently corrected, is in the book in which he 
had copied several of his letters. This has 
been used for the press, with some omissions, 
and one slight alteration suggested by Gilbert 

+ This house is on the righi hand side of the 
road from Ayr to Maybole, wliicii forms a part 
of the road from Glasgow lu Port-Patrick., 
When the poet's father after « 'rds removed to 
Tarbolton parish, he sold hi? Ici^ehoid right in 
th.a house, and a few acres of iaad adjoiiiiuj, 
t<. ihf corporation of shoemakers in Aji, it is 
low u country ale-house, ^ 



hard when he could g«* wofk, paising through 
a variety of difficulties. Still, however, h* 
endeavoured to spare something for the support 
of his aged parent ; and I recollect hearing him 
mention his having sent a bank-note for this 
purpose when money of that kina was so sea»-re 
in Kincardineshire, that they scarcely knew 
how to employ it when it arrived." From 
EdinburghWilliam Burnes passed westward in- 
to the county of Ayr, where he engaged himself 
as a gardener to the laird of Fairley, with w hoin 
he lived two years ; then changiug his service 
for that of Crawford of Doonside. At length, 
being desirous of settling in life, he took a per- 
petual lease of seven acres of land from Dr 
Campbell, physician in Ayr, with the view of 
commencing nurseryman and public gardener ; 
and having built a house upon it with his own 
hands, married in December, 1757, Agnea 
Brown, the mother of our poet, who still sur- 
vives. The first fruit of this marriage was 
Robert, the subject of these memoirs. Lorn on 
the 29th of January, 1759, as has already been 
mentioned. Before William Buraies had mada 
much progress in preparing his nursery, he 
was withdrawn from that undertaking by Mr 
Ferguson, who purchased the tstitt- of l»nou- 
holni, in the immediate ne.giabourhood, and 
engaged him as his gardener and overseer ( 
and this was his situation when our poet was 
born. Though in the service of Mr Ferguson, 
he lived in his own house, his wife managing 
her family and little dairy, which consisted, 
sometimes of two, sometimes of three milcb 
cows ; and this state of unambitious content 
continued till the year 176o. His son Robert 

at Alloway Milu, about a mile uistant, taugiit 
by a person of the name of Campbell ; but this 
teacher being in a few months appointed ma,.- 
ter of the workhouse at Ayr, William Bafn-s, 
in conjunction with some other heads of fami- 
lies, engaged John Murdoch in his stead. Tha 
education of our poet, and of his brother Gilbert, 
was in common ; and of tiieir proficiency under 
3Ir 3Iurdoch we have the following account : 
•'With him we learnt to read English tolera 
bly well, i and to write a little. He taught as, 
too, the English grammar. I \^al. too yoiiig 
to profit much from his lessons in grammar; 
but Robert mad'i some proficiency iu it— a clr- 

folding of his genius and character ; as he soon 
became remarkable for the fluency and correct- 
ness of his expression, and read the few bocks 
that came in his way with much pleasure and 
improvement; for even then he was a reader, 
when he could get a book. Murdoch, whose 
librarv at that time had no great varn-tv in it, 
lent him The Life of Hannibal, which was the 
first book he read (the school books -sxcepted) 
and almost the only one he had an opportunity 
of reading while he was at school ; for 2'he 
Life of \VaVMi, which he classes with it in one 
of' his letters to you, he did not see for some 
years afterwardsi when he borrowed it from 
the blacksmith who shod our horses. " 

It appears that William Burnes approved 
himself greatly in the service of .'^ir Ferguson, 
bj his intelligence, industry, and integrity, la 



"X. Letter from Gilbert Burns to Mrs Dualop, 



IS 



DIAMOND CABIXET LIBRARY. 



consequence of this, with a ^ri^w of promoting 
his interest, Mr Ferguson leased him ft farm, 
of which we hare the following accouut. 

•• Ttie faras wag npwwda of serenty acres* 
(b«twee= eighty aod ninety, English statute 
meaiure), the rent of which was to be forty 
p!rai:us anncaUy for the first six yeora, and af . 
terwards forty-tive poauds. My father endea- 
voured to tell his leasehold properly, for the 
purpose of Blocking this faria, but at that time 
■was uDsbTe, and AJr Ferguson lent him a hun- 
dred puuttds for that purpose. He removed to 
bis new situation at Whitsuntide, 1700. it 
was, I thinif, not above two years after this, 
that Murdoch, on? tutor and friend, left this 
part of the coantry ; and there Iseiag ao school 
near us, and our little services being nsefu! on 
the farm, my father andertook to teach us 
arithmetic in the winter evenings, by cuudle- 
light ; and is. this way my two elder sisters got 
all the education they receiyed. I remember a 
circumstance that happened at this ticae, which, 
though trifling in itself, i« fresh in my memory, 
and may serve to iliar-rrate the early chaiacter 
of my brother. Murdoch came to spend a 
Eight with us, and to take his leave, wnen he 
v»as about to go into Corrick. ile brought us, 
as a present and memorial of biia. a small 
compendium of English Grammar, and the 
tragedy of Titus Aiidrcnicus ; and, by way of 
passing the evening, he began to read the play 
aloud. We were all attention for some time, 
till presently the whole party was dissolved ii 
tenrs. A female in the play (I have but a con- 
tused remembrance of it) had her hands chopt 
c'A', and her tongue cut out, and then was in- 
sultingly desired to call for water to wash her 
hands. At this, in an agony of distress, 
•wiih one voice desired he would read no more. 
My father observed, that if we would not hear 
it out, it would be needless to leave the play 
with us. Robert replied, that if it was left he 
would barn it. My father was going to chide 
him for this nngrateful return to his tutor' 
kindness ; bsl Murdoch interfered, declaring 
that he liked to see so much sensibility ; and b< 
left The Sch^lfor Love, a comedy (transited, 
i think, from tna French), in its place. *'f 



* Letter of Gilbert Burns to Mrs Dnnlop. 
The name of this ikrm ia Meant Oiiphant, in 
Ayr parish. 

"t It is to be remembered that the poet yraa 
only uiue years of age, and the relater of this 
Incident under eight, at the time it happened. 
'Ih-- etfect wag very natural in children of sen- 
sibiiity at their age. At a mere mature period 
of the judgment, such absurd representations 
eie calculated rather to produce disgost or 
laughter, than tears. Tha scene to which 
Gilbert Burns alludes, opens thus : 

TUu$ Andronicus, Act IL Scene 5. 



"Nothing," eoatici;es Gilbert Burna* 
*• could be more retired than otir gencrrJ maa- 
ner of living at Mount Oiiphant ; we rart^tj 
saw any body but the members of our own 
family. There were no boys of oar own a^e, 
or near it, in the neighbourhood. Indeed the 
greatest part of the land in the yicinity was at 
that time possessed by shopkeepers, and people 
of that stamp, who had retired from business. 
or who kept their farm in tne country, at the 
same time that they fcliowed business in town. 
My father was for some time almost the only 
companion we had. i!« co-versed fcimiliarly 
on ail subjects with as, a* if w« bitrd been men ; 
and was at great pains, while we ftccempanied 
him ia the labours of the fenn, to lead the 
conversation to such subjects as rai^ht tend to 
increase our knowledge, or confirm us In vir- 
tuous habits. He borrowed Salman 's Gtogra- 
phical Grammar for ns, and «Mideavoured t© 
make us acquainted with the situation and 
history of the diflerent countries in the world; 
while, from a book-socieiy ia Ayr, be procured 
for us the reading of Dcrfuim't Pkyeico a/id 
Asiro-TiteoU>gy, and Ruy's Wiidmn of God in 
tkf Creation, to give as some idea of astronomy 
and natural history. Robert read all theso 
books with aa avidity and industry scarcely to 
be equalled- Wy father had beer, a snbscriber 
to Stacklwuse'$ History of the Bible, then lately 
pubiiihed by James Meuros in Ki:marnock: 
from ihie Robert collected a comp»'ient know- 
ledge o? imcient history ; for no 1/ook was so 
voluraloons as to slacken his industry, or go an- 
tiquated as to dams his researches. A. brother 
of my mother, wdo had lived with us some 
time, and had Icarct some arithmetic by our 
winter eveaiog 'e candle, W'^nt into a bookseller's 
ehop in Ayr, to parcbasa T/x Ready Recifmer, 
or Trede»mixa''6 »ttre Guide, and a book to teach 
him to write letters. Luckily, in place of T/i« 
Coinplste Letter-Writer, be got, by mistake, a 
small eolleetiou of letters by the most eminent 
writers, with a few sensible dir«;lifH8 for at- 
taining an easy epistolary style. Hiis book 
was to Robert of tlw greatest consequence. It 
inspired him with a strong desire to excel in 
letter-writing, while it furnished him with 
models by some of the first writers in our lan- 
guage. 

" My brother was about thirteen or foorteea, 
when my father, regretting that he wrote so ill, 
sent us, we«k aboat, during a sanmer quer-.M-, 
to the parish sobool of J)airymple, which, 
though betweoa two and three miles distant, 
was the neareet to us, that t»e nsigh: tuve an 
opportunity of remedying this defecL About 
this time a bookish ocquaaatauce of my father's 
procured us a reading of two volumes of Rich- 
ardson 's Pamela, which was the first novel we 
read, and the only part of Richardson's works 
raj brother was acquainted with till towards 
the period of his commencing author. Till 
that time too he remained anacqaaiuted with 
Fielding, vrith Smollett, (two Tolumes of 



intended to perform. Tliat he never excited 

in a British mind (for the French critics must 

%V s « Is this B!'ly play etiJl printed es Shak- ; be set aside) disgust or ridicule, where he 

spea-'tt 9, against the opinion ef all the best j meant to have awakened pity or horror, is 

eritii s ? Tbe bard of Avon was gnilty of m-iuy i what will not be imputed tO that master of the 

extravagancies, but he always performed what [ passions. 



BURNS.— LIFE. 



F-r'^'s/TTid Cctmt Fathom, and two Tolnmea 
of /'crft-niw Pickle excepted), with Home, 
v> :fa Kob«'ri«on, aiid almost ail our authors 
^1 'imn«nc« of tho Uter tiia«*« I recollect 
. .1 my fsDjer borrowed » volume of 
,-''sh history from Mr Hamilton of Bourtree- 
« gardener. It treated of the r«iga of J ames 
First, and hie nnfortunat* son, Chariee, 
I Jo not know who wm the author ; all 
- 11 I remembor of it is scmetfainf^ of Charles 'b 
c a~ers«tioa with hia ehUdren. Al>octthis time 
^; ivdoch, OCT former teacher, after having been 
ii! difterent places in th« country, and hariug 
tauj^ht a school leaietime in Dumfries, came to 
bs lae established teacher of the English ian- 
frua^ in Ayr, a cirenmetaace of eoosiderable 
cua^eqaence to as. The remembrance of my 
father 8 former friendship, and his attachment 
to my brother, made him do every thiri^ in his 
power for oar improremeat. He sent us Pope's , 
vorks, and some other poetry, the first that we 
had an opportunity of readiaff, excepting what I 
is contained in The Ev^lish CoUection, and in | 
the Tolume of The Edinburgh Magaiir.e for , 
1779 ; excepting also those exeelleni new tmips j 
that are hawked about the country ia baskeu, j 
01 «zpo«ed on stalls in the streeU. i 

♦• The summer after we had been at Dalrym- | 
pie school, mj father sent Robert to Ayr, to i 
reviM his En/rlish grammar, with his former . 
teacher. He bad been there only one week, 
when ho was obliged to retism, to assist at the 
faarrecU When the harrest was over, he went 
back to school, where he remained two weeks ; 
and ihis completes the account of his school 
education, excepting one ssmmer quarter some 
time afterwards, that he attended the parish 
6<hcM3l of Rirk-Oswald, (where he lived with a 
broiljtr of my mother's) to learn surveying. 

' * 1 >uring the two last weeks that he was with 
Muraoch, he himself was engaged iu learning 
Frf.nch, and he communicated the iniirruciioas 
he received to my brother, who, when he re- 
turned, brought with him a French dictionary 
and (grrummar, and the Advetiturtt of Telema. 
cAujfiu the original. In a little whi'le, by the 
assmtanca of these books, he acquired such a 
knowledge of the language, as to read and 
nnderstiind any French author in prose. This 
was considered aa a sort of prodigry. and 
through the niedinm of Murdoch, procured him 
the acquainiAsce of several lads in Ayr, who 
were at that lime gabbling French, and the 
notice of soite farailii-s, particu'i»rly that of Dr 
Malcolm, whwe a knowledge of French was a 
rtK'om mendation. 

" Obserrin^ the facility with which he had 
acquired the French language, Mr Hcbertion, 
th» estiiblished writing-master in A*r. and Mr 
Murdach's particular friend, having himself 
a<\;aired a oonsiderabla knowledge of the Latin 
U'lgvage ky his OWB indastry, without ever 
hsixiig iearued it at •chooi« advised Robert to 
mukv the same attempt, promiaing him every 
assiHtance in his power. Agreci^ly to this 
advice, be purchased The RudimenU of Uie 
Latin Tofif^ie, but finding this study dry and 
unintereetiDg, it wv* quickly laid aside Ue 
frequently returood to his RudimeTii* on any 
little chagrin or disappointment, particularly 
in his love atfairaj but the Latin seldom pre- 
dominated more than a day or two ai a tiote, 
or a week at must. Observing hidiBelf the 
ridicule that would attach to tbu sort <tf op" 



I 



iluct if it were known, he made two or fhreo 
humcGui stanzas on the subject, which I 
caunut now recollect, but they all ended, 

' So I'll to my Latin again.' 

'Thus you see Mr Murdoch was a principal 
means'of my brother's improvement. Worthy 
man ! though foreign to my present purpose, 
I cannot take leave of him without trasing his 
future hfstory. He continued for some years a 
respected and useful teacher at Ayr, till cue 
evening that he had been overtaken in liquor 
he happened to speak somewhat disrepectfuUy 
of Dr Darymple, the parish minister who had 
not paid him that attention which he thought 
himself entitled. In Ayr he might as weil 
have spoken blasphemy. He found it proper 
to give up his appointment. He went to Lou- 
don, where he still lives a private teacher of 
French. He has been a considerable time 
married, and keeps a shop of stationery wares 

The father of Dr. Paterson, now physician 
at Ayr, was, I believe, a native of Aberdeen- 
shire, and was one of the established teachers 
in Ayrwhen myfather settled in the neighbour- 
hood. He eagerly recognized my father as a 
fellow native of the north of Scotland, a cer- 
tain degree of intimacy subsisted between thein 
during Mr Paterson's life. Alter his death his 
widow, who is a very genteel woman, and of 
great worth, delighted in doing what sha 
thought her husband would have wished to 
have done, and assiduously kept up her atten- 
tions to all bis acquaintance. She kept alive 
the intimacy with our family, by frequently 
inviting mv father and mother to her house on 
Sundajs, when she met them at church. 

"When she came to know my t)rother's pas- 
sion for books, she kindlv offered us the use of 
her husband's library, and from her we got tho 
Spectator, Pope's Translation of Homer, and 
several other books that were of use to us. 
Mount Oliphant, the farm my father possesseii 
in the parish of Ajr, is almost the poonst 
soil I know of in a slate of cultivation. A 
stronger proof of this I cannot give , than that 
notwithstanding the extraordinary rise in tiie 
value of lands in Scotland, it was alter a con- 
siderable sum laid out in improving it by the 
proprietor, let a few years ago, five pounds pe» 
annum lower than the rent paid for it by mj 
father thirty years ago. My father, in conse- 
quence of this, soon came into difficulties, 
which were increased by the loss of several ol 
his cattle by accidents and disease. To thf 
buffetings of misfortnne we could only oppose 
hard labour and the most rigid economv. We 
lived very sparingly. For several years but- 
cher's meat was a stranger in the house, while 
all the members of the family exerted them- 
selves to the utmost of their strength, snd 
rather beyond it, in the labours of the tarm 
My brother at the age of thirteen, assisted in 
threshing the crop of corn, and at fifteen 
was the principal labourer on the farm, for 
we had no hired servant, male or female. 
The anguish of mind wc felt at our tender 
years, under the straits and difficulties, was 
very great. To think of our father growing 
old, for he was now above fifty, broken dov.n 
with the long continued fatigues of his life, 
with his wife and five other children, and in 
a declining state of ciTcuinstauce»,the6e lefltc- 



so 



DIAMOND Cabinet library. 



tioii'i produced in my brother's mind and mine 
scuiations of the deepest distress. I doubt not 
bu. the hard labour and sorrow of this period of 
his life, was in a great measure the cause of 
thai depression of spirits with which Robert was 
60 often afflicted tnroujh his whole life after- 
wards. At this time he was almost constantly 
BiHicted in the evenings with a dull headache", 
which, at a future period of his life, was ex- 
changed for a palpitation of the heart, and a 
tnreateuing of faint. ng and guft'ocation in his 
led, in the night-time. 

" By a stipulation in my father's lease, he 
bad a ri»ht to throw it up, if he thought proper, 
at the end of every sixth jear. He attempted 
to fix himself in a better farm at the end of the 
first six years, but failing in that attempt, he 
continued where he was for six years more. 
He then took the farm of Lochlea, of 130 acres, 
at the rent of twenty shillings an acre, in the 

parish of Tarbolton, of Mr , then a 

merchant in A>r, and now (1797) a merchant 
in Liverpool. He removed to this farm at 
MTiitsunday, 1777, and possessed it only seven 
years. No writing had ever been made out, of 
the conditions of the lease ; a misunderstand:ng 
took place respecting them : the subjects in dis- 
pute were submitted to arbitration, and the 
decision involved my father's affairs in ruin. 
He lived to know of this decision, bat not to 
see any execution in consequence of it. He 
died on the 13th of February, 17S4. 

"The seven vears we 'lived in Tarbolton 
parish (extending from the seventeenth to the 
twenty-fourth of my brother's age), were not 
marked by much literary improvement; but 
during this time the foundation was laid of cer. 
tain habits in ray brother's character, which 
afterwards became hut too prominent, and 
which malice and envy have taken delight to 
enlarge on. Though, when young, he was 
bashful and awkward in his intercourse with 
women, yet when he approached manhood, his 
attachment to their society became very strong, 
and he was constantly the victim of some fair 
enslaver. The symptoms of his passion were 
often such as nearly to equal those of the 
celebrated Sappho. I never indeed knew that 
be fainted, sunk, and died awai/ : but the agita- 
tions of his mind and body exceeded anv thing 
of the kind I ever knew in real life. He bad 
always a particular jealousv of people who were 
richer than himself, or who had more conse- 
quence in life. His love, therefore, rarely 
settled on persons of this description. When 
he selected ajiy one, out of the sovereignty of 
his good pleasure, to whom he should pay his 
particular attention, she was instaEtly invested 
with a sufficient slock of charms, out of the 
plentiful stores of his own imasina'ion; and 
there was often a great dissimilitude between 
his fair capti'/ator as she appeared to others, 
and as she seemed when invested with the at- 
tributes he gave her. One generally reigned 
paramount in his affections: but as Yorick's 

rffections flowed out toward ^Madame de L 

tt the remise door, while the eternal vows of 
Kliza were upon him, so Robert was frequently 
encountering' other attractions, which formed 
(o many under plots in the drama of his love, 
As these connexions were governed by the 
«'rictest rnleg of virtue andmodestv (from which 
5e >!?ver deviated till he reached his 23d year), 
)e b«came anxious to be in a situation to marry. 



This was not likely (o be soon the case whila Im 
remained a farmer, as the stocking of a farm 
required a sum of money he had no probability 
of being master of for a great while. He be- 
gan, therefore, to think of trying some other 
line of life. He and I bad for several years 
taken land of my father for the purpoie of 
raising iiax on our own account. In the course 
of selling it, Robert began to think of turning 
flax-dresser, both as being suitable to his 
grand view of settling in life, and as subser- 
vient to the flax raising. He accordingly 
wrought at the business of a flax-dresser in 
Irvine for six months, but abandoned it at that 
period, as neither agreeing with his health nor 
inclination. In Irvine he had contracted some 
acquaintance of a freer manner of thinking and 
living than he had been used to, whose society 
prepared him for overleaping the bounds of 
rigid virtue which bad hitherto restrained him. 
Idwirds the end of the period under review 
1 1.1 his 24th year), and soon after his father's 
death, he was furnished wiih the subject of his 
epistle to John Rankin. During this period 
also he became a freemason, which was bis 
first introduction to the life of a boon companion. 
Yet, notwithstanding these circumstances, and 
the praise he has bestowed on Scotch drink 
(which seems to have misled his historians), i 
do not recollect, during these seven years, nor 
till towards the end of his commencing autlor 
(nhen his growing celebrity occasioned his 
being often in company), to have ever seen h in 
intoxicated ; nor was he at all given to drinkina. 
A stronger proof of the general sobriety of his 
conduct need not be required than what I am 
about to give. During tiie whole of the time 
we lived in the farm of Lochlea with my fatht-r, 
he allowed my brother and me such wages tor 
our labour as he gave to other labourer?, as a 
part of which, every article rf our rloh ng 
manufactured in the family was rejularlv ac- 
counted for. When my father's affairs 'rire a- 
near a crisis, Robert and I took the farm of 
Mossariel, consisting of 118 acres, at the rent 
of i90 per annum' (the farm on which I live 
at present) frotn >ir Gavin Hamilton, as an 
asylum for the family in case of the worst. It 
was stocked by the property and individual 
savings of the whole famil%, and was a joint 
concern among us. Every member of the 
family was allowed ordinary wages for the 
labour he performed on the farm. Aly brother's 
allowance and mine w as seven pounds per an- 
num each. And during the whole time this 
family concern lasted, which was four years, 
as well as during the preceding period el 
Lochlea, his expenses never in any one year 
exceeded his slender income. As 1 was iu-- 
trusted with the keeping of the family accounts, 
it is not possible that there can be any fallacy 
in this statement in my brother's favour. His 
temperance and frugality were every thing that 
could be wished. 

" Ihe farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and 
mostly on a cold wet bottom. The first tour 
years that we were on the farm were very 
rrosty, and the spring was very late. Our 
crops in consequence were very unprofitable; 
and, notwithstanding our utmost diligence and 
economy, we found ourselves obliged to give 
up our bargain, with the loss of a considerable 
part of our orig-ina! stock. It was during 
these four years that Robert fonticd his oo«- 



BURNS — LIFE. 



11 



nsxion -with Jean Arnionr, afler-waids Mrs 
I3urn«. This connexion could no longer be 
'or.cealed, about the time v,e came to a final 
.' determination to quit the farm. Robert durst 
not engage with a family in his poor unsettled 
. state, but was anxious to shield his partner by 
1 every means in his power from the consequen- 
ces of their imprudence. It was agreed there- 
fore between them, that they should make a 
legal acknowledgment of an irregular and 
private marriage ; that he should go to Jamaica, 
to push hisjortune ; and that she should remain 
with her father till it might please Providence 
to put the means of supporting a family iu his 
power. 

" Mrs Burns was a great favourite of her 
father's. The intimation of a private marriage 
■was the first suggestion he received of her real 
situation. He was in the greatest distress, and 
fainted away. The marriage did not appear to 
him to make the matter any better. A hus- 
band in Jamaica appeared to him and his wife 
little better than none, and an effectual bar to 
any other prospects of a settlement in life that 
their daughter might have. They therefore 
expressed a wish to her, that the written papers 
■which respected the marriage should be can- 
celled, and thus the marriage rendered void. 
In her melancholy state she felt the deepest 
remorse at having brought such heavy alHiction 
on parents that loved her so tenderly, and sub- 
mitted to their entreaties. Their wish was 
mentioned to Robert. He felt the deepest 
anguish of mind. He offered to stay at home 
and provide for his wife and family in the best 
manner that his daily labours could provide for 
them ; that being the only means in his power. 
Jiverj this offer they did not approve of; for 
humble as Miss Armour s station was, and 
great though her imprudence had been, she 
still, in the eyes of her partial parents, might 
V)ok to a better connexion than that with 
my friendless and unhappy brother, at that 
time without house or biding-place. Robert 
at length consented to theii wishes ; but his 
feelings on this occasion were of the most dis- 
Tacting nature: and the impression of sorrow 
■was not effaced, till by a regular marriage they 
were indissolubly united. In the state of mind 
which this separation produced, he wished to 
leave the country as soon as possible, and agreed 
with Dr Douglas to go out to Jamaica as an 
assistant overseer, or, as I believe it is called, 
a book-keeper, on his estate. As he had not 
sufficient money to pay his passage, and the 
vessel in which Dr Douglas was to procure a 
passage for him was not expected to sail for 
some time, Mr Hamilton advised him to publish 
liis poems in the meantime by subscription, a: 
a likely way of getting a little money to provid( 
Lira more liberally in necessaries for Jamaica. 
Agreeably to this advice, subscription bills wen 
printed immediately, and the printing wa; 
commenced at Kilmarnock, his preparations 
going on at the same time for his voyage. The 
reception, however, which his poems met with 
in the world, and the friends they procured 
aim, made him change his resolution of going 
to Jamaica, and he was advised to go to Edin- 
burgh to publish a second edition. On his 
return, in happier circumstances, he renewed 
his connexion with Mrs Burns, and rendered it 
permanent by a union for life. 

•• Thus, iJadam, have I endeavoured to gire 



you a simple narrative of the leading circum- 
stances in my brother's early life. Tiie re 
maining part he spent in Edinburgh or Dan>.. 
friesshire, and its incidents are as well known 
to you as to me. His genius having procured 
him your patronage and friendship, tliis gave 
se to the correspondence between you, ia 
hich, I believe, his sentiments were delivered 
ith the most respectful, but most unreser\ed 
confidence, and which only terminated with 
the last days of his life. ' ' 



This narrative of Gilbert Burns may serve 
as a commentary on the preceding sketch of 
our poet's life by himself. It will be seen that 
the distraction of mind, which he mentions 
above, arose from the distress and sorrow in 
which he Lad involved his future wife. The 
whole circumstances attending this connexioa 
are certainly of a very singular nature.* 

The reader will perceive, from the foregoing 
narrative, how much the children of AVilliani 
Burnes were indebted to their father, who was 
certainly a man of uncommon talents ; thoujh 
it does not appear that he possessed any portion 
of that vivid imagination for which the subject 
of these memoirs was distinguished. In page 
14. it is observed by our poet, Wiat his father 
had an unaccountable an'ipathy to dancing- 
schools, and that his attending one of liie^ 
brought on him his displeasure, and even dis- 
like. On this observation •Gilbert has made iha 
following remark, which seems entitled to im- 
plicit credit : — "I wonder now Robert could 
attribute to our father that lasting resentnient 
of his going to a dancing-school against his 
will, of which he was incapable. I believe 
the truth was, that he, about this time, Legaa 
to see the dangerous impetuosity of my brother's 
passions, as well as his not being amenaLlt to 
counsel, which often irritated my father ; and 
which he would naturally think a dancing- 
school was not likely to correct. But he v.as 
proud of Robert's genius, wbich he bestowed 
more expense in cultivating than on the rest of 
the family, in the instances of sending him to 
Ayr and Kirk-Oswald schools; and he was 
greatly delighted with his warmth of heart, 
and his conversational powers. He had in- 
deed that dislike of dancing-schools which 
Robert mentions ; but so far overcame it during 
Robert's first month of attendance, that he 
allowed all the rest of the family that wtre tit 
for it, to accompany him during the second 
month. Robert excelled in dancing, and was 
for some time distractedly fond of it. " 

In the original letter to Dr Moore, our poet 
described his ancestors as "renting lauds of 
the noble Keiths of Marischal, and as having 
had the honour of sharing their fate. " " I do 
not," continues he, "use the word honour 
with any reference to political principles ; 



* In page 16. the poet mentions his "skulk- 
ing from covert to covert, under all the terrors 
of a jail. "—The "pack of the law were un- 
coupled at his heels," to oblige him to hud 
security for the maintenance of his twin- 
children, whom he was not permitted to legi. 
timate by a marriage with their mother 



?2 



DIAMOND CABEffET LIBRARf^ 



Ic-i/ol ana cfts/oyai 1 take to be merely relative , 
terTCs, ia that ancient and formidable court, 
known in this couDtry by the name of Qub- ' 
law, where the right is always with the 
strongest. But those who dare welcome ruin 
and shake hands with infamy, for what they 
sincerely belieTe to be the cause of their God, 
or their kingr, are, as Mark Antony says in 
Spakspeare, of Brutjs and Cassius, hone j fable 
men, I mention this circumstance, because it 
threw my father en the world at large. 

This paraHT ph hrs been omitted in printing 
the letter, af the des.re of Gilbert Enrns ; and 
it wouid have be?n unnecessary to have noticed 
it on the present occasion, had not several 
manuscript copies of thai letter been in circula- 
tioa. "I do not know," observes Gilbert 
Burns, **how ray biotber could be misled in 
the acconnl he has given of the Jacobitibm of 
bis ancestors. — I believe the Earl of Marischal 
forfeited his title and estate ia 1715, before my 
father was born ; and among a collection of 
^arisk-certificates in his possession, I have read 
one, stating that the bearer had no concern in 
the late wicked reheUion. ' ' On the information of 
one who knew William Bornes soon after he ar- 
rived iu the county of A)r. it may be mentioned, 
that B report did prevail, thr.l he had taken the 
field with the young chevalier ; a report which 
the certificate mentioned by his son was, per- 
haps, iutecded to counteract. Strangers trom the 
North, settling in the low country of Scotland, 
■were ia these days liable to suspicious of having 
been, in the fa^iiliar phrase of the country, 
" Out in the forty-five," (1745,) especially 
^bMi they bad any staieliness or reserve about 
them, as' R as the case wiih WilKam Burnes. 
It may eajliv be conceived, that our poet would 
cherish the belief of his father's having been 
engaged in the daring enterprise of Prince 
Charles Edward- The generous attachment, 
the heroic viionr, and the final misfortunes of 
the adherents of the house of Stuart, touched 
with sympathy his youthful and ardent mind, 
aad inilu«nced bis original political opinions. * 



* Ther« is another observation of Gilbert 
Burcs on his brottier's narrative, in which 
some perfoui will be interested. It refers to 
where Uie ooet speaks of his youthful friends. 
' * -My bro:cer, " says Gilbert" Burns, " seems 
to set oft his ujIj companions in too consequen- 
tial a manuer. The priacipal acquaintance we 
had in Ayr, while bojs, were four sons of Mr 
Andrew 'M'Culloch, a distaal relation of mj 
mother 's, who kept a tea-shop, and had mad^e 
a little money ia the conS-aband trade, very 
eommoa at that time. He died while the boys 
■were young, and my father was nominated one 
of the tn'vOts. The two eid^ were Lred shop- 
keepers, tie third a sargecn, and tie youngest, 
the ardf surviving one, was bredia a countiiig- 
bouse in Glasgow, where be is now a respec- 
table merchant. I believe all these boys went 
to the \V>st indies. Then there were two sons 
ef Dr Malcolm, whom I have mentioned in my 
fetter to Mrs Duaiop. The eldest, a very 
■worthy yonng man, ■went to the East Indies, 
•where' be bad a commission in the army ; he is 
the person, whose heart my brother says the 
Munny Be^m scenes could not corrvpt. The 
•ther, by the interest of Lady Wallace, got an 
otuigncy ia a regimeut raised by the duke of 



him towards the latter end o 
above the common stature, thin, and bent 
labour. His countenance was serious and 
expressive, and the scanty locks on his head 
were grey. He was of a religions turn of mind, 
and as is usual among the Scottish peasantry, 
a good deal conversant in speculative theoloffy. 
There is in Gilbert's hands a little mannaT of 
religious belief, in the form of a dialogue 
between a father and his son, composed by him 
for the use of his children, in which the bene- 
volence of bis heart seems to have led him to 
soften the rigid Calvinism of the Scottish 
church, into something approaching to Ar- 
minianism. He wag a devout man, and in th« 
practice of calling bis famijv together to join ia 
prayer. It is known that the following ex« 
quisite picture in the CcUer's Saturday A'i.<A4 
represents William Buinea and his family at 
their evening devotions. 

The cheerful supper done, with serions faes. 

They, round the lag le, form a circle wide ; 

The sire turns »'er, with patriarchal grace. 

The big AcZt-Bibie, once his father's pride: 

His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in ZioQ 
glide. 
He wales a portion with jndicions care ; 
And •' Lei -js uxrship Godl' be says with so- 
lemn air. 



Perhaps i>u?«ice 'e •)■ wild warbling measure!! 
rise, 
Or plaintive Martyrs j worthy of the name ; 
Or nofale Elgin f beefs the heavenly fiume. 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy" lays ; 
Compared with these, Italian trills are tuv.r ; 
The tickled ears ao heartfelt raptures rai,.? ; 
No tinisoa have they with our Creator 's praise; 

The prieit-Uke father reads the sacred page, i. 

How Abram was thefWtr.d of God on hiigb; 
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did grcaaiag lie. 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging 
ire J 
Or, Job's pathetic ploiot, and wailisg cry ; 



Hamilton, durinir the AmericRU war. I believe 
neither of them are now (1707) alive. We also 
knew the present Dr Paterson of Ayr, and a 
younger brottier of his now in Jamaica, who 
were much younger than bb. I had almost 
forgot to mention Dr Charles of Ayr, who was 
a little older than ley bro-.her, and with whom 
he had a longer and closer intimacy than with 
any cf the others, which did not, however, con- 
tinue in afterlife," 

j- Names cf tunes in Scottish psalmody. 
The h:ne5 mentioned in, this poem are the thr'-e 
which were nsed by William BoiBes, who bed 
no greater variety. 

± The course of family devotion among the 
Scots is, first to sing a psalm, then to read a 
portion of scrip tore, and lastly to kiieel dowa 
in prayer. 



BURNS — LIFE. 



23 



Perhaps the Chrietiaa Tolnme is the tbem*. 
How Euiltless blood for guUlj ra?u was 
8h"ed; 

How ht who bore in heaven th<»»»cond namp. 
Had not on earth whereon vo laj tiis head ; 

How his first followers and serrcji!.* sptd ; 
The preceplB se^e thej wrote to manj » 

How ke who lone U Fatou>s banisbe<L, 
Saw in the gun a mi^fttj au^rel gtaiid : 
And heard ^eat Babylon 'g doom pronounced 
by Heaven 'i command 1 

Then kneeling down toHeaven's et«^malKiE». 

The satnl.the/atAfir.and the hjishjrui prars; 
Hope springs exalting on triuupbact wing. 

That tA!{« they all shall meet in future daja; 
There ever bask in uncreated rays. 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. 
Together hymning their Creator's praise. 

In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time nwres round lo aa eternal 



Then homeward all take off their several way ; 

The youngling collegers retire to rt-si ; 
The parent pair their secrtt hotrJit^ pay. 

And offer up to Heaven the warm request. 
That ke who stills the raven's clam 'reus uest. 

And decks the lily fair in flowery prid<?. 
Would in the way his wisdom sees the hesl. 

For them and for iheir little ones pro\id»! ; 
Bu; cfaieiiy in their hearts with grace ditiiv 
preside. 

Of a family so interestin? as that which in. 
habited the cottage of Wiliiam iSurnes, and 
particularly of the father of the family, the 
reader will perhaps be willing to lislec; to some 
farther account. What follows is given b\ one 
already mentioned with so much hoi.i>ur, in 
the narrative of Gilbert Uurns. Jlr Alurdoch, 
the preceptor of our poel, wtio, in a teller to 
Joseph Cooper Wa'.ktr, Esq. of Dublin, author 
of the Historical iUaioir of the Italian Tragciiy, 
lately published, thus expresses himself: 

SIR, 

•' I was lately favonred with a letter from our 
worthy frieud, the Rev. Wm. Adair, in which 
"be requested me to communicate to yon what- 
ever particulars I could recollect concerning 
Robert Burns, the Ayrshire poeU My business 
being at present multifarious and harassing, 
fay attention is consequently so much divided, 
and I am so little in the habit of expressiiij; my 
thoughts on paper, that at tbis distance of time 
I can gi<re but a very imperfect sketch of the 
early part of the life of that extraordinary geulu^ 
with which alone 1 am acquainted- 

" William Burnes, the father of the pot-t, 
was born ia the shire of Kincardine, and bred 
B gardener. He had beea settled in Ayrshire 
ten or twelve years before I knew him, and 
had been in the service of >3r Crawford of 
DooDside. He was afterwards employed as a 
gardener and overseer by Provost Ferguson of 
IXwnholm, in the parish of Alioum, which is 
B«w united with tiiat of Ayr. iu ihis g cish. 



on the road side, a Scotch oi;!t and a half from 
the town of Ayr, niid tia!! a mile from the 
bridge of Poni.l VVi:iia:c Burnes look a piece 
of land consi-iifig of about sevfn nores, part i>f 
which he laid dui in garden ground, and part 
of which he kept to graie e. cdw, Slc. still coa- 
tinuing in the eiupioy of Prov-.ii! Ferguson. 
Upon this little farm was erected an hambie 
dwelling, of which William Buroes was the 
architect. It wa3, with the exceptionof a littie 
straw, literally a tabernacle of c;=iy. la this 
mean cottage, of which I myself was at times 
an inhabitant, I really believe there dwelt a 
larger pottion of content than in any palace in 
Europe. The Cotter t Hatarday AVgA.' will 
give some idea of the temper and icaacers that 
prevailed there. 

•• In 1:65, about the middle of March. Mr 
W. Burnes came to Ayr, and sent to tlie 
school where I was improving in writing undtr 
my good f.iend Mr Robison, de-siricg that 1 

and bring my writing book with me. This 
was immediately complied with. Having ex. 
amined my writing, he was pii^ased with it — 
(you will readily ailuw be was not difficult), 
and told me that he had tecctv>rd very satisfac- 
tory information of Mr Teanint, the master of 
the English school, conceruing my impro^e- 
aient in English, and in hi= method of leach- 
ing. In the month of May following, I was 
engaged by Mr Barnes, and four of bis nei^h. 
hours to teach, and accordingly began to teach 
the little school at AUoway, which was situated 
a few yards from the argillaceous fabric above 
mentioned. My five employers undertook to 
board me by turns, and to make up a certain 
salary, at the end of the year, provided my 
(juarterly payments from the dilierent pupils 
did not amount to that sum. 

*' My pupil, Robert Burns, was then between 
six and seven years of sge ; his preceptor abuul 
eighteen. Robert and his younger brother 
Gilbert, bad been grounded a "little in English 
before they were put under my care. They 
both made a rapid progress in reading, and a 
tolerable progress in writing. In reading, di- 
viding words into syllables by rule, spelling 
without book, parsing sentences, 6ce. Robert 
and Gilbert were generally at the upper end of 
the class, even when ranged with boys by far 
tbeir senior*. The books most commonh used 
in the schools were the SpeUing Bovk, the AVtc 
Tesiamem, the BMe. 'Mason^s C^-iciiion of 
Prcseand T'erse, cad Fisher's English Cn-am- 
mar. They committed to memory ibe hymns, 
and other poems of that collection, wuii un- 
common facility. This facility wa.- partly 
owing to the method pursued by tbeir father and 
me in instrucfiug them, which was, to make 
them thoroughly .'.cquainled with the nje-.uung 
of every word in each sentence that was to be 
committed to memory. By the bye, this may 
be easier done, and at an earlier period, than is 
generally thouffht. As soon as ihey were 
capable of it, I taught them to turn verse into 
its natural prose order ; sometimes to substitute 
synonyuious expressions for poetical words, and 
to supply all the ellipses. These, you know, 
are the means of knowing that the pupil under- 
stands his author. These are ereeiient helps to 
the arrangement of v^crds in sentences, as well 
as to a variety of expression. 

*• Gilbert always app e&ted to me to possess a 



■*— ^^*-'**-'T^■^i^ mmv 



at 



UUMONU CABIXET LIBRARY. 



more lively imagiaation, and to be more of the 
wit, than "Robert. I attempted to teach them 
a little church-music Here they were left far 
behind by all the rest of the school. Robert's 
«ar. in particular, was remarkably dull, aad his 
voice untunable. It was long before I could 
get them to distingruish one tuae from another. 
Robert's countenance was generally grave, and 
expressive of a serious, contemplative and 
thoughtful mind. Gilbert's face said. Mirlh, 
wit/itheelvieantolive; and certainly, if any 
person who knew the two buys, had been ask^J 
wbich of them was the most likely to court rtie 
muses, be woald surely never have guessed ihat 
Robert had a propensity of that kind. 

•' In tbe year 1767, Mr Burnes quitted his 
mud edifice, and took possession of a farm 
(Mount Oliphant) of his own improving, while 
in the service of Provost Ferguson. This fuj-m 
being at a considerable distance from the school, 
the boys could not attend regularly ; and bOine 
changes had taken place among the other sup- 
porters of the school, I left it, having continued 
to conduct it for nearly two years and a half. 

" In the year 1772, I was appointed (being 
one of five cauJiJates who were examined) to 
teach the English school at Ayr ; and in 17 73, 
Robert Burns came to board and lodge with 
lue, for the purpose of revising English gram- 
mar, ice. that he ml^ht bo better qualified to 
instruct his brothers and sisters at home. lie 
was now with me day and night, in school, at 
all meais, and in all my walks. At the end of 
one week, I told hill, thai, as he was now 
pretty much master of the pai-ts of speecli, &c, 
I should like to teach him someihiag of Preach 
pronunciation, that whan he should meet with 
the na:iit of a French town, ship, oiacer, or 'he 
like, in the newspapers, he might be able 'o 
pronounce it something like a French word. 
Robert was glad to hear this proposal, and im- 
mediately we attacked the French with great 
courage. 

•• Now there was little else to be heard but 
the declension of nouns, the conjugation of 
verbs, 6iC. When walking together, and even 
at meals, I was constantly telliii? him the names 
of different objects, as they oresented them- 
selves, in French ; so that he was hourly laying 
in a stock of words, and sometimes little phras- 
es. In short, he took such pleasure in learn- 
ing, and I in teaching, that it was difficult to 
say which of the two was most zealous in the 
business ; and about the end of the second week 
of our study of the French, we began to read a 
little of the Adventures of Teiemachus, in Fe- 
neloa's own words. 

"But now the plains of Mount Oliphant be- 
gan to v.'hiten, and Robert was summoned to 
relinquish the pleasing scenes that surrounded 
the grotto of Calypso, aad, armed with a sickle, 
to seek glory by signalizing himself in the fields 
•f Ceres— and iio he did; for although Dut 
about fifteen, { was told that he performed the 
work of a man. 

Thus was I deprived of my very apt pupil, 
and consequently agreeable cotupaniim, at the 
end of three weeks, one of which wis spent 
entirely in the study of English, and the other 
two chiefly in that of French. I did not, how- 
ever, lose sight of him ; but was a frequent 
visitant at his father's house, when I had my 
half-holiday, and very often wmt accompanied 
with one or two persoos more nuelligeut thin 



I myself, that good WiUim Burnes might enjojr 

a mental feast Thea the labouring oar waa 

shifted to some other hand. The father and 
the son sat down with us, when we enjoyed a 
conversation, wherein solid reasoning, sensible 
remark, and a moderate seasoning of jocularity, 
were so nicely blended as to render it palatable 
to all parties. Robert had a hundred questions 
to ask me about the French, &c. ; and th* 
father, who had always rational information in 
view, had stiil some question to propose to ray 
more learned ffiends, upon moral or natural 
philosophy, or some such interesting subject. 
Mrs Burnes too was of the party as much aa 
possible; 

' But still the house affairs would draw her 

thence. 
Which ever as she could with haste despatch. 
She'd come again, and, with a greedy ear. 



Devour up their disi 

and particularly that of her husband. At all 
times, and in all companies, she listened to hira 
with a more marked attention than to any body 
else. When under the necessity of being ab- 
sent while he was speaking, she seemed to 
regret, as a real loss, that she had missed what 
the'good-man had said. This worthy woman, 
Agnes Brown, had the most thorough esteem 
for her husband of any woman I ever knew. 1 
can by no means wonder that she highly es- 
teemed him ; for I myself have always consi- 
dered William Burnes as by far the best of the 
human race that ever I had the pleasure of be- 
ing acquainted with — and many a worthy 
character I have known. I can cheerfully joia 
with Robert in the last line of his epitaph 
(borrowed from Goldsmith), 

' And ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side. 

" He was an excellent husband, if I may 
judge from his assiduous attention to the ease 
and comfort of his worthy partner, and from 
her affectionate behaviour to him, as well aa 
her unwearied attention to the duties of a 
mother. 

" He was a tender and affectionate father; 
he took pleasure in leading his children in tii« 
path of virtue ; not in driving them, as soma 
parents do, to the performance of duties lo 
which they themselves are averse. He took 
care to find fault but very seldom ; and there 
fore, when he did rebuke, he was listened ta 
with a kind of reverential awe. A look of dis- 
approbation was felt; a reproof was severely 
so ; and a stripe with the l.iws, even on the 
skirt of the coat, gave heart-felt pain, produced 
a loud lamentation, and brought forth a flood 
of tears. 

•« He had the art of gaining the esteem and 
good-will of those that were labourers under 
him. 1 think 1 never saw him angry but 
twice : the one time it was with the foreman of 
the band, for not reaping the field as he was 
desired ; and the other time, it was with au 
old man, for using smutty innuendoes and douhh 
eateiiares. Were every foul-mouthed old raaa 
to receive a seasonable check in this way, it 
would be to the advantage of the rising gener- 
ation. As he was at no time overbearing to 
inferiors, he was equally incapable of tb U 
passive, pitiful, paltry spirit, that induces som» 



Jlk 



BUR.<rS.-LlPE. 



85 



p«opl« to keep booiug and booing in the presence 
of a great man. He always treated superiors 
with a becoming respect ; but he never gave 
the smallest encouragement to aristocratical 
arrogance. But I must not pretend to give 
j'V you a description of all the manly qualities, 
* the rational and Christian virtues of the vener- 
is able William Burnes. Time would fail me. 
1 shall only add, that he carefully practised 
every known duty, and avoided every thing 
that was criminal ; or, in the apostle's words. 
Herein did he exercise liimsdf, in living a life 
void of offence towards God and towards men. 
O for a world of men of such dispositions ! We 
should then have no wars. I have often wish- 
ed, for the good of mankind, that it were as 
customary to honour and perpetuate the memory 
of those who excel in moral rectitude, as it is 
to extol what are called heroic actions ; then 
would the mausoleum of the friend of my youth 
overtop and surpass most of the monuments I 
see in Westminster Abbey. 

"Although I cannot do justice to the char- 
acter of this worthy man, yet you will perceive, 
from these few particulars, what kind of person 



more propriety (both with respect to dicti 
and pronunciation), than any man I ever knew 
■with no greater advantages. This had a very 
good effect on the boys, who began to talk, 
and reason like men, much sooner than their 
neighbours. I do not recollect any of their con- 
temporaries, at my little seminary, who after- 
wards made any great figure as literary cha- 
racters, except Dr Tennant, who was chaplain 
to Colonel Fullarton's regiment, and who is now 
in the East Indies. He is a man of genius and 
learning ; yet affable, and free from pedantry. 

" Mr Burnes, in a short time,' found that he 
had overrated Mount Oliphant, and that he 
could not rear his numerous family upon it. — 
After being there some years, he removed to 
Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, where, I 
believe, Robert wrote most of his poems. 

•' But here, sir, you will permit me to pause. 
I can tell you bat little more relative to our 
poet. I shall, howerer, in my next, send you 
a copy of one of bis letters to me, about the 
year 1783. I received one since, but it is mis- 
laid. Please remember me, in the best man- 
ner, to m,y worthy friend Mr Adair, when you 



An the narrative of Gilbert Burns was writ, 
ten at a time when he was ignorant of the 
existence of the preceding narrative of his 
brother, so this letter of Mr Murdoch was 
written without his having any knowledge that 
either of his pupils had been employed on the 
same subject. The three relations serve, there- 
fore, not merely to illustrate, but to authenti- 
cate each other. Though the information they 
convey might have been presented within a 
shorter compass, by reducing the whole into 
one unbroken narrative, it is scarcely to be 
doubted, that the intelligent reader will be far 
more gratified by a sight of these original 
documents themselves. 

Under the humble roof of his parents, it 
appears indeed that our poet had great advan- 
fdS** i ''ut his upportuoities of iuforuiation at 



school were more limited as to time than (hey 
usually are among his countrymen, in his con- 
dition of life ; and the acquisitions which he 
made, and the poetical talent which he exerted, 
under the pressure of early and incessant toil, 
and of inferior, and perhaps scanty nutriment, 
testify at once the extraordinary force and 
activity of his mind. In his frame of body ha 
rose nearly to five feet ten inches, and assumed 
the proportions that indicate agility as well as 
strength. In the various labours of the farm 
he excelled all his competitors. Gilbert Burns 
declares, that, in mowing, the exercise that 
tries all the muscles most severely, Robert was 
the only man that, at the end of a summer's 
day, he was ever obliged to acknowledge as his 
master. But though our poet gave the powers 
of his body to the labours of the farm, he re- 
fused to bestow on them his thoughts or his 
cares. While the ploughshare under his 
guidance passed through the sward, or the 
grass fell under the sweep of his scythe, he 
was humming the songs of his country, musing 
on the deeds of ancient valour, or rapt in the 
illusions of Fancy, as her enchantments rose 
on his view. Happily the Sunday is yet a sab- 
bath, on -which man and beast rest from their 
labours. On this day, therefore. Burns could 
indulge in a freer intercourse with the charms 
of nature. It was his delight to wander alone 
on the banks of the Ayr, whosje stream is now 
immortal, and to listen to the song of the 
blackbird at the close of the summer's day. 
But still greater was his pleasure, as he him • 
self informs us, in walking on the sheltered 
side of a wood, in a cloudy winter day, and 
hearing the storm rave among the trees ; and 
more elevated still his delight, to ascend soma 
eminence during the agitations of nature, to 
stride along its summit, while the lightning 
hashed around him, and amidst the bowlings 
of the tempest, to apostrophize the spirit of 
the storm. Such situations he declares most 
favourable to devotion— " Rapt in enthusiasm, 
I seem to ascend towards Hun who waLkn o>i 
the wings of the wind .' " If .^ther proofs were 
wanting of the character of Ujs genius, this 
might determine it. The hearf oi the poet is 
peculiarly awake to every impression of beauty 
and sublimity; but with the higher order of poets 
the beautiful is less attractive than the sublime. ^ 

The gaiety of many of Burns 's writings, and ' 
the lively, and even cheerful colouring with 
which he has portrayed his own character, 
may lead some persons to suppose, that the 
melancholy which hung over him towards the 
end of his days, was not an original part of his 
constitution. It is not to be doubted, indeed, 
that this melancholy acquired a darker hue in 
the progress of his life ; but, independent of hia 
ownandof his brother's testimony, evidence 
is to be found among his papers, that he was 
subject very early to those depressions of mind, 
which are perhaps not wholly separable from 
the sensibility of genius, but which in him rose 
to an uncommon degree. The following letter, 
addressed to his father, will serve as a pro<il' of 
this observation. It was written at the time 
when he was learning the business of a flax- 
dresser, and is d^ted 

Irvine, Dec. 27, 1781. 

' • Honoured Sir , 
" I have purposely delayed writing, in tka 



28 



DL\ilON'D CVBLVET LIMRARY. 



hope that I should have the pleasure of seeing 
jron on New-year's day; but vork w.raeg so 
hard upon as, that I do not eboose to bo 6h«ont 
on that account, as v.e\] as for soni? otbor little 
rea«)iig, which I shall tell jou at meeting. Mjr 
health ii nearly the same as when >ou were 
here, only my sleep is a little sounder, and, on 
the whole, I'am rather better tban otherwise, 
though I mend by very slow desrrees. The 
■weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my 
mind, that I dare neither review past wants, 
nor look forward into futurity ; for the least 
anxiety or perturbation in my breast, produces 
most unhappy effects on my whole frame. 
Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or two 
my spirits are a little lightened. 1 siimvitrr a 
little into futurity ; but my principal, and 
indeed my only pleasurable employtu-rnt, is 
lookinET backwards and forwards in a moral 
*ud relirioui way. I «m quite transported at 
the thcu^ut, that ere Ion?, perhaps verj ►oon, 
I shall bia an eternal adieu to all the pains, and 
uneasinesses, and disquietudes of this weary 
life : for I assure you I tm heartily tired of it'; 
cad, if 1 do not »ery much deceive myself, I 
could contentedly and gladly resign iu 



•• It is for this reason I am more pleased 
with the 15th, lUth, and 17th verses of tbe 7th 
chapter of Revelation, than with any leu tiiues 



they inspire me for all that this wornl has lo 
offer. As for this world, I de^pajr of ever 
making a fip-ure in it. I am not formed for the 
bustle of the busy, nor the liutter of the iray. I 
shall never again be capable of enienne into 
ench sci'ues. Indeed 1 am altogether uucon- 
ceriied at 'he thcnghts of this Life. 1 foresee 
that poTerty and obscurity probably await me, 
ar)d I am in some measure prepared, and daily 
preparing to meet them. I have but just lime 
and paper to return you my grateful thanks for 
the lessons of virtue and piety yon have given 
me, which were too much' neglected at the 
tinie of giving them, but which, I hope, have 
been remembered ere it is yet too late. Pre- 
sent my dutiful respects to my mother, and mr 
compliments to Mr and >irs Muir ; and. with 
wishing yon a merry ISew-vear's-day, 1 shall 
••liciade. 

•• I am, honoured sir, 
" Your dutiful son, 

•• ROBERT BURNS." 



•• P.S. My meal is nearly out, but I am 
goicf ta borrow, till I get more. " 

This letter, written several years befor* the 
pub lication of his poems, when his name was 
as obscure as his condition was homble, dis- 
plays the philosophic melancholy which eo 
generally forms the poetical temperament, and 
that bcoy&nt and ambitions spirit which indi- 
cates a mind conscious of iu strength. At 
Irvine, Bbtiu at this time possessed a sinele 
room £or Lis lodgings, rented perhaps at the 
. at« of a ahilllrig a week. He passed his days 
i-i oonstant labour as a £ax-d[re66er, and his 
fet..-" o-tosisted chiefly of oatmeal sent to him 
tswtfe ,.:» lather's famfly. lh« sioie of thia 



hnnibie, though wholesome nntrlmpnt, it 
appears was nearly «Tbauri.>d, and he was 
BOni^t to borrow till fae sbouiu ol-taia a supply. 
Y<^i even \a this sitcation, his •»«•«■»•» imagiaa' 
tiou had formed to itself picture* of fmiDfuca 
and distincti<in. His despair of aiak;iig a 
hgure in the world, shows how ardr-i.ii) ba 
wisr.ed for bonoorable fame ; and his contt-nipt 
of lite, founded on this despair, is the geuuio^ 
expression ot a youthful generous mind la 
sui-h a state of reflection, and of sufiering. the 
imaffination of Bsms naturally passed the dark 
boundaries of cur earthly horizon, a.id rested 
on those b»autifiil representations of a better 
world, where there is "neither thirst, nor hun- 
ger, nor sorrow, and where happiness shall be 
ia proportion to the capacity of happinehs. 

Sack a disposition is far from bei.'ig at 
variance with social enjoyuients. Those who 
have studied the affinities of mind, know that a 
melancholy of this description, after a while, 
leeks relief in the endearments of society, aid 
that it has no distant connection wuh the flow 
of cheerfuiuess, or even the extravao-aace of 
miith. It was a few days after the wniint: jt 
this letter that our poet, " in giving » weli-om- 
ing carousal to the new year, witn hii ;:-iy 
companions, *' suffered his llai to cau'h lire, 
and his shop to be consumed to ashes. 

The energy of Burns' mmd was not ex)iau:-t- 
ed by his daily labours, the efl>ision= of t:» 
muse, his social pleasures, or his solitary medi- 
tations. Some time nrevious to his enjrage- 
ment as a flax-dresser, having heard thai a. 
debatins club had been established in A)r, be 
resolved to try how such a meeting would s!.>;- 
ceed in the village of 'larboltoa. Abcui lti« 
end of the year 17S0, our poet, his tioihrr, 
and five other young peasants of the neigh b.ji:.-- 
hood, formed themselves iuto a society of this 
sort, the cleclared o!)j.>''ts of which were to 
relax themselves after toil, to promote social. 'y 
and friendship, and to improve the mind. '1 be 
laws and regulations were furnished by Bnrn». 
The members were to meet after the latMurs of 
the day were over, once a-week, in a shjaU 
public-house in the village ; where each sbucid 
offer his opinion on a given question of subie..-t, 
sspporticgit by such arguments .-is he thoog-n*. 
proper. The debate was to be conducted witi. 
order and dccorsra ; and after it was liiiished, 
the members were to choose a subject for di<- 
cuEti-ion at the en>iuiQg meeting. The sum 
expended by each, was not to exceed three 
pence; and, with the bumble potation that 
this could procure, they were to toast th-^ir 
mistresses, and to cultivate friendship with 
each other. This society continued its meet - 
ines regularly fw stime time; and iu the 
autumn of 1782, wisLine to preserve some 
eecounts of their prooeedirgs, they purchaae<i 
a boob, into which their laws and regulations 
were copied, with a preamole, containing a 
short history of their transactions down tu 'lat 
period. I'his curious document, which is 
evidently the work of our poet, has be.-n 
discovered, and it deserves a place in his E-e- 

' ^History of the RiKf., P-rcce'riir.gs, and Ticjt*. 
lotions oj the Bacheltn-s ' Club. 

• Of birth or blood we do not bor.<;t, 
Nor gentry does our club atloiu ; 



BURNS.— LIFE 



**As the great end of hnmaa society is t« 
^•5^ome wiser and better, this onsht therefore 
to be the principal view of ererj man in every 
station of life. Bet as experience has taught 
us, that such studies aa iatarm the bead <iud 
meod the heart, nrhen long contina^d, a.-*- •nut 
to exhaust the faeuitiee cf the mind, it t^.; 
been found proper to relieve and unbend tie 
mind by some employ meat or another, th''-* 
may be agreeable enough to keep itj powers in 
exercise, but at the sarne time not so serious as 
b exhaust them, fiit runeradded to tbia, by 
tar the greater part n? maakiad are undar the 
necessity of eam^nf tkf gusteytance ef humor, 
life by the labour of tWr bodies, whereby, not 
only the faculties of the mind, but the nerves 
and sinews of the body, are so fatigued, that it 
is absolutely necasiary to have recourse to some 
amusement or diversion, to relieve the wearied 
man worn dovn with the necessary labours 
of life. 

" As the best of '.hin^, however, have been 
perverted to the worst of purposes, so, under 
the pretence of amusement and diversinn, men 
have plunged into all the madness of riot and 
dissipation; and instead of attending to the 
grand design of human life, they have begun 
with extravafatice and folly, and ended with 
guilt end wretchedness. Imprested witli these 
considerations, we, the following lads in the 
pari.-ih of Tarbolton, viz. Hugh Reid, Robert 
Burns. Gilbert Burns, Alexander Brown, 
Walter Mitchel. Thomas Wright, and William 
WGavin, resolved, for our luutual entertain- 
ment, to unite ourselves into a club, or society, 
under such rules and regulations, that vfhile we 
should forget our cares and labours in mirth 
and diversion, we might net transgress the 
bounds of innocence and decorum : and after 
agreeing on these, and some other regulations, 
we held our first meeting at Tarbolton, in the 
hou-ipof John Richard, upon the evening of the 
11th of November, 1780, commonly called 
Hallowe'en, und adfter choosing Robert Burns 
president for the night, we proceeded to debate 
on this question, — • Suppose a young maa, bred 
a farmer, but without any fortune, has it in his 
power to marry either of two women, the one a 
girl of large fortune, but neither handsome in 
person, nor agreeable in conversation, but who 
can manafa the household affairs of a farm well 
enough ; the other of them a girl every way 
agreeable in person, conversation, and be- 
haviour, but without any fortune: which of 
them shall he choose t ' Finding ourselves very 
bappy in our society, we resolved tocontiniie to 
meet once s mooth in the same bouse, in the 
•way and manner proposed, and shorliv tbert-af- 
ter we chose Robert Ritchie for another mem- 
ber. Ib May. 1781, we brought in David SiU 
lar,* and in June, Adam Jamison as memttrs. 
About the besrinnius cf the year 1782, we ad- 
mitted Matthew Patterson, and John Orr, a:id 
in Jane following we chose James Patterson as 
a proper brother tor such a society. The club 
being thus increased, we resolved to meet at 
Tarboltoa on the raca aigfit, tha July follow- 



ing, and hart a i»see in honour of our societ/ 
Accordingly we did meet, each one with 
partner, and spent the evening in such inao 
cence and merriment, ench cheerfulness and 
good humour, that every brother will lon;^ 
remember it with plea?ur« and delight," To 
this preamble ar« subjoined the rules aad re- 



religion only excepted, 

directed ; which question is to be debated in tea 
club, each member taking whatever side ha 
thinks proper, 

2d. ^Yhea the club is met, the president, or, 
he failing, some one of the members, till he 
come, shall take his seat ; then the other mem- 
bers shall seat themselves ; those wbc a.-? fT 
one side of the question, on the president's rignt 
hand ; and those who are for the other side, oa 
bis left; which of them shall hava the right 
hand is to be determined by the president. 
The president and four of the m^tubers bein^ 
present shall have power to transact any ordi- 
nary part of the society 's business. 

3d. The club met and seated, the president 
shall read the question out of the club's book o^ 
records, (which bo«k is always to be kept by the 
president) then the two members nearest the 
president shall cast lota who of them shall speae 
tirst, and according as the lot shall determine, 
the member nearest the president on that side 
shall deliver his opinion, and the member n»^ar- 
es! on the other side shall reply to hiia ; theu 
the second member of the side '.hat spoke hrsl; 
then the second member of the iide taat spoka 
second, and so on i« the end cf the conipany ; 
but if there be fewer members on the one sido 
than on the other, when all the members of toe 
least side have spoken according to their places, 
any of them, as they please among themselves, 
may reply to the remaining members cf the op- 
posite side; when both sides have spoken, (he 
president shall give his opinion, aifter which 
th.?y may go over it a second or more times, and 
so continue the question. 

4!h. The club shall ihea proceed to the 
choice of a question for the subiect of next 
night's meeting. The president s&al! first pro- 
pose one, and any other member who chooses 
may propose more questions ; and whatever one 
of tb>"m is most agreeable to the majority of tlis 
members, shall be the subject of debate neit 
club-nighu 

5ih. The club shall, lastly, elect a new pre- 
sident for the next meeting ; the president shall 
tirst name one, then any of the club may nama 
another, and whoever of them has the majority 
of votes shall be duly elected ; allowing the 
president the first vote, and the casting v<it8 
upon a par, but none other. Then after a 
general toast to mistresses of the club, they 
shall dismiss. 

6th. There shall be ne private eonversatioo 
carried on during the time of debate, nor shall 
any member intermpt another while he is 
speaking, under the penalty of a reprimand 
from the president, for the first fault, doubliug 



98 



DIAMOND CABINET ilBRARY. 



Tith ia 



The philosopbical mind will dwell 
terest and pieai<ure on an institution that com- 
bined so skilfnliy the means of instruction and 
of hapniness ; and if grandeur look down with 
a. smile on these simple annals, let us trust that 
it will be a smile of benevolence and approba- 
tion. It is with regret that the sequel of the 
historj of the Bachelor's Club of Tarbolton 
must be told. It survived several years after 
our poet removed from Ayrshire, but, no longer 
sustained by his talents, or cemented by bis 
social aflections. Its meetings lost much of 
their attraction ; and at length, in an evil hour, 

institution was given up, and the records 
committed to the flames. Happily the preasuble 
and the regulations were spared ; and as mat- 
ter of instruction and of example, they are 
transmitted to posterity. 

After the family of our bard removed from 
Tarbolton to the neighbourhood of Mauchline, 
he and his brother were requested to assist in 
forming a similar institution there. The regu- 
lations of the club at Mauchline were nearly 
the same as those of the club at TarboltoM ; 
but one laudable alteration was made. The 
fines for non-attendance had at Tarbolton been 
spent in enlarging their scanty potations : at 
Mauchline it was tiied, that the money so aris- 
g, should be set apart for the purchase of 

X)ks ; and the first work procured in this 
.Banner was the Mirror, the separate numbers 
of which were at that time recently collected 
and published in volumes. After it followed a 
number of other works, chiefly of the same 
nature, and among these the Louns;er. The 
society of Mauchline still subsists, and was in 
the list of subscribers to the tirst edition of the 
works of its celebrated associate. 

The members of these two societies were 
or^inally all young men from the country, and 
chiefly sons of farmers; a description of per- 
sons, in the opinion of our poet, more agreeable 

n their manners, more virtuous in their cou- 



his share of the reckoning for the secona ; tre- 
bling it for the third, and so on in proportion 
for every other fault ; provided always, how- 
ever, that any member may speak at any time 
ifter leave asked and given by the president. 
All swearing and profane language, and par- 
ticularly all obscene and indecent conversat on, 
'.s strictly prohibited, under the same penalty 
as aforesaid in the first clause of this art:cle. 

7th. No member, on auy pretence whatever, 
shall mention any of the club's affairs to any 
other person but a brother member, under the 
pain of being excluded ; and particularly, if 
any member shall reveal any of the speeches 
or affairs of the club, with a view to ridicule 
or laugh at any of the rest of the members, he 
snail be for ever excommunicated from the 
society ; and the rest of the members are de- 
sired, as much as possible, to avoid, and have 
no communication with him as a friend or 
comrade. 

8th. Every member shall attend at the meet- 
ings, without he can give a proper excuse 
for not attending ; and it is desired that every 
one who cannot attend will send his excuse 
with some other member; and he who shall 
be absent three meetmgs without sending such 
eecu^, shall b<; summoned to the dub-night. 



duct, and more susceptible of improvement, 
than the self-sufl5cient mechanic of country 
towns. With deference to the Conversation- 
society of Mauchline, it may be doubted, whe- 
ther the books which they purchased were of a 
kind best adapted to promote the interest and 
happiness of persons in this situation of life. 
The Minor and the Lounger, tnough works of 
great merit, may be said, on a general view of 
their contents, to be less calculated to increasa 
the knowledge, than to refine the taste of those 
who read them ; and to this last object their 
morality itself, which is however always per- 
fectly pure, may be considered as subordinate. 
As works of taste they deserve great praise. 
They are, indeed, refined to a high degree of 
delicacy ; and to this circumstance it is perhaps 
owing, that they exhibit little or notiiing of 
the peculiar manners of the age or couiiiry in 
which they were produced. But delicacy of 
taste, though the source of many pleasures, is 
not without some disadvautages ; aud to render 
it desirable, the possessor should perhaps ia 
all cases be raised above the necessity of bodily 
labour, unless indeed we should include under 
this term the exercise of the imitative arts, over 
which taste immediately presides. Delicacy 
of taste may be a blessing to him who has the 
disposal of his own time, and who can choose 
what bock he shall read, of what diversion he 
shall partake, and what company he shall keep. 
To men so situated, the cultivation of taste af- 
fords a grateful occupation in itself, ani opens 
a path to many other gratifications. To men 
of genius, in the possession of opulence and 
leisure, the cultivation of the taste may be said 
to be essential ; since it affords employment to 
those faculties which, without employment, 
would destroy the happiness of the possessor, 
and corrects that morbid sensibility, or, to use 
the expression of Mr Hume, that delicacy of 
passion, which is the bane of the temperament 
of genius. Happy had it been for our bard, 
after he emerged from the condition of a pea- 



when, if he fail to appear, or send an excuse, 
he shall be excluded. 

9th. The club shall not consist of more than 
sixteen members, all bachelors, belonging to 
the parish of Tarbolton ; except a brothej 
member marry, and in that case he may be 
continued, if the majority of the club think 
proper. No person shall be admitted a mem- 
ber of this society, without the unanimous 
consent of the club ; and any member may 
withdraw from the club altogether, by giving 
notice to the president in writing of his depar- 

10 th. Every man proper for a member of 
this society, must have a frank, honest, open 
heart ; above any thing dirty or mean, and | 

must be a professed lover of one or more of 
the female sex. No haughty, seif-conceited 
person, who looks upon himself as superior to 
the rest of the club, and especially no mean- ' 

spirited, worldly mortal, whose only will is to ; . 

heap up money, shall upon any pretence what- m | 

ever be admitted- In short, the proper person li 

for this society, is a cheerful honest-hearttd ^ I 

lad, who, if he has a friend that is true, and a I 

mistress that is kind, aud as much wealth as 
genteelly to make both ends meet — is just ab 
happy as this world can make hiin. 



BURNS LIFE. 



29 



■«nt, had the delicacy of hig taste equalled the I 
seiisibilit; of his passions, regulating all the 
effusions of his muse, and presiding over all 
bis social enjoyments. But to the thousands 
who share the original condition of Burns, and 
•who are doomed to pass their lives in the sta- 
tion in which they were born, delicacy of taste, 
were it even of easy attainment, would, if not a 
positive evil, he at least a doubtful blessing. 
JDelicacy of taste may make many necessary 
labours irksome or disgusting ; and should 
It render the cultivator of the soil unhappy in 
his situation, it presents no means by which 
that situation may be imorcved. Taste and 
literature, which diffuse so many charms 
throughout society, which sometimes secure to 
their votaries distinction while living, and 
fwhich still more frequently obtain for them 
posthumous fame, seldom procure opulence, 
or even independence, when cultivated with 
the utmost attention, and can scarcely be pur- 
sued with advantage by the peasant in the short 
intervals of leisure which his occupations allow. 
Those who raise themselves from the condi- 
tion of daily labour, are usually men who excel 
in the practice of some useful art, or who join 
habits of industry and sobriety to an acquain- 
tance with some "of the more common branches 
of knowledge. The penmanship of Butter- 
worth, and the arithmetic of Cocker, may be 
studied by men in the humblest walks of life ; 
and they w-ill assist the peasant more in the 
pursuit of independence, than the study of 
Homer or of Shakspeare, though he could 
comprehend, and even imitate, the beauties of 
those immortal bards. 

These observations are not offered without 
some portion of doubt and hesitation. The 
subject has many relations, and would justify 
an ample discussion. It may be observed, on 
the other hand, that the tirst step to improve- 
ment is to awaken the desire of improvement, 
and that this will be most effectually done by 
such reading as interests the heart and excites 
the imagination. The greater part of the sacred 
writings themselves, which in Scotland are 
more especially the manual of tlie poor, come 
nnder this description. It may be farther ob- 
served, that every human being is the proper 
judge of his own happiness, anu, within the 
path of innocence, ought to be permitted to 
pursue it. Since it is the ta^te of the Scottish 
peasantry to give a preference to works of taste 
and of fancy.* It may be presumed they tind 
a superior gratification in the perusal of such 
works ; and it may be added, that it is of more 
consequence they should be made happy in their 
original condition, than furnished with the 
means, or with the desire, of rising above it. 
Such considerations are doubtless of much 
weight ; nevertheless, the previous reflections 
may deserve to be examined, and here we shall 
leave the subject. 

Though the records of the society at Tarbol- 
ton are lost, and those of the society at Manch- 
line have not been transmitted, yet we may 



* In several lists of book-societies among the 
poorer classes in Scotland which the Editor 
has seen, works of this description form a 
great part. These societies are by no means 
peiiTal. and it is not supposed that they are 
It present. 



safely afErra, that our poet was a distin^ished 
member of both these associations, which were 
well calculated to excite and to develope the 
powers of his mind. From seven to twelve 
rsons constituted the society at Tarbolton, 
id such a number is best suited to the pur- 
poses of information. Where this is the object 
of these societies, the number should be such, 
each person may have an opportur ity of 
imparting his sentiments, as well as of rcceiv- 
ig those of others ; and the powers of private 
jiiversation are to be employed, not those of 
public debate. A limited society of this kmd, 
where the subject of conversation is fixed 
beforehand, to that each member may revolve 
jviously in his mind, is perhaps one of the 
happiest contrivances hitherto discovered for 
shortening the acquisition of knowledge, and 
ilening the evolution of talents. Such an 
ociation requires indeed somewhat more of 
julation than the rules of politeness ests.- 
blished in common conversation ; or rather, per- 
haps, it requires the rules of politeness, which 
in animated conversation are liable to peri>e- 
tual violation, should be vigorously enforced. 
The order of speech established in the club at 
Tarbolton, appears to have been more regular 
than was required in so small a society ; whera 
all that is necessary seems to be, the fixing on 
a member to whom every speaker shall address 
himself, and who shall in return secure tha 
speaker from interruption. Conversation, 
which among men whom intimacy and friend- 
ship have relieved from reserve and restraint, 
is liable, when left to itself, to so many 
inequalities, and which, as it becomes rap;d, 
so often diverges into separate and collateral 
branches, in which it is dissipated and lost, 
being kept within its channel by a simple limi- 
tation of this kind, which practice renders easy 
and familiar, flows along in one full stream, 
and becomes smoother, and clearer, and df?;'er, 
as It flows. It may also be observed, th^.i in 
this way the acquisition of knowledge becomes 
more pleasant and more easy, from the graai;al 
improvement of the facu'ty employed to convey 
it. Though some attention has been paid .o 
the eloquence of the senate and the bar. wiiich 
in this, as in all other free governments, is pro- 
ductive of so much influence to a few who ex- 
cel in it. yet little regard has been paid to the 
humbler exercise of speech in private conversa- 
tion, an art that is of consequence to every 
description of persons under every form of 
government, and on which eloquence of every 
kind ought perhaps to be founded. 

The tirst requisite of every kind of elocution, 
a distinct utterance, is the offspring ot much 
time, and of long practice. Children are al -.v ay s 
defective in clear articulation, and so are vouiig 
people, though in a less degree. Ulna is 
called slurring in speech, prevails wiui -.jr::» 
persons through life, especially in those who 
are taciturn. Articulation does not seem to 
reach its utmost degree of distinctness in men 
before the age of twenty, or upwards: in wo- 
men it reaches this point somewhat earlier. 
Female occupations require much use of 
speech, because they are duties in detail. Be- 
sides, their occupations being generally seden- 
tary, the respirsition is left nt liberty. Their 
nerves being more delicate, their sensibility as 
well as fancy is more lively ; the natural conse- 
quence ol which is, a more frequent utterance 



DIV.MO.ND CABLVET LIBRARY. 



cf thnaght, a ffreatsr flnencr at ^p<'ech, and a 
distinct articulatioa •X ac earlier a^e. But in 
men who ha^e not mingled early and familiarly 
^ith the world, though rich perhaps in know- 
ledge, and dear in apprehension, it is oftec 
painful to observe the difficulty with which 
their ideas are commnnicated by 6pe<>ch, 
throuzh the want of those habits, that connect 
thoughts, words, and sounds together ; which, 
wheu established, eeem as if they had arisen 
spontaneously, but which, in truth, are the 
result of long and painful practice, ar.d when 
analyzed, exhibit the phenomena of most cu- 
rious and coiEplicated association. 

Societies tlien, such as we have been describ- 
ing, while they may be said to pat each mem- 
ber in possession of the knowledge of all the 
rest, improTe the powers of uttercmce, and by 
the collision of opinion, excite the faculties of 
reason and reflection. To those who wish to 
iraprore their minds in snch intervals of labour 
as the condition of a peasant allows, this me- 
thod of abbreviating icstrnction, may, under 
proper regulations, be highly useful. To the 
student, whose opinioni, springing out of soli- 
tary observation and meditation, are neldom in 
the first instance correct, and which have uot- 
wiikstauding, while confined to himself, an 
increasing tendency to assume in his own eye 
the character of demonstrations, an association 
of this kind, where they may be examined as 
they arise, is of the utmost importance ; since 
It may prevent those Ulnsions of imagination, 
by which genius being bewildered, science is 
often debased, and error propagated through 
sRccessive generations. And to men who, hav- 
iu^r cultivated letters or general science in the 
coarse of their education, are engaged in the 
active occupations of life, and no longer able to 
devote to study oj to books the time requisite 
for improving or preserving their acquisitions, 
associations of this kind, where the mind may 
unbend from its usual cares in discussions of 
Jiierature or science, afford the most pleasing, 
the most useful, and the most rational of gra- 
tifications. * 

Whether, in the hnmble societies of which 
he was a member. Bums acquired much direct 
information, may perhaps be questioned. It 
cannot however be doubted, that by collision, 
the faculties of his mind would be excited, that 
" y practice, his habits of enunciation would be 



• WTien letters and philosophy were culti- 
Tated in ancient Greece, the press had not 
niuiiiplied the tablets of learning and science, 
aiid necessity produced the habit of studying as 
ii were in common. Poets >ere found reciting 
(heir own verses in public assemblies; in pub- 
lic schools only philosophers delivered their 
epeculationa. The taste of the hearers, the 
ingenuity of the scholars, were employed in 
appreciating and examining the works of fancy 
aud of speculation submitted to their consider- 
ation, and the irrei-ocabk ivords were not given 
ty the world before the composition, as well as 
the sentiments, were again and again retouched 
tnJ iniproTci Death alone put the last seal 
on the labours of genras. Hence, perhaps, 
may be in part explained the extraordinary art 
and skill with which the monuments of Gre- 
cixii literature that remain to Us, appear to have 
bt-eu ccosiructed. 



established, and thtis we hare tome explanation 
of ^hat early command of words and of expres- 
sifeD which enabled him to ponr forth his 
tbooghu in Uitgna^ not unworthy of his 
genius, and which, ci all his endowments, 
seemed, en his appearance in Edinburgh, the 
most extraordinary. + For associations of a 
literary nature, our poet acquired a considerable 
relish ; and happy had it been for him, after he 
emerged from the condition of a peasant, if 
fortune had permitted him to enjoy them in the 
degree of which he was capable, so as to have 
fortified his principle* of virtue by the purifica- 
tion of his taste, and given to the energies of 
his mind habits of exertion that might have ex- 
cluded other associations, in which it must te 
acknowledged they were too often wasted, as 
well as debased. 

The whole course of the Ayr is fine; but 
the banks of that river, as it bends to the east- 
ward above Mauchline, are singularly beautiful, 
and they were frequented, as may be imagined, 
by our poet in his solitary wais. Here the 
muse often visited him. In one of these wan- 
derings, he met among the woods a celebrated 
Beauty of the west of Scotland; a lady, of 
whom it is said, that the charms of her person 
correspond with the character of her mind. 
This incident gave rise, as might be expected, 
to a poem, of which an account will be found 
in the following letter, in which he inclosed it 
to the object of his inspiration : 

TO MISS . 

Mossgid, ISthNcv. 1786. 
"Madam, 
"Poets are such autre beings, so much the 
children of wayward fancy and capricious 
whim, that I believe the world generally ailo\ss 
them a larger latitude in the laws of propriety, 
than the sober sons of judgment and prudence. 
I mention this as an apology for the liberties 
that a nameless stranger has taken with you 
in the inclosed poem, which he begs leave to 
present you with. Whether it has poetical 
merit any way worthy of the themes ^ am iio-t 
the proper judge ; but it is the best my abUitiei 
can produce ; and what to a good heart will 
perhaps be a superior grace, it is equally sin- 
cere as fervent. 



+ It appears that oiu Poet made more pr"^ 
paration than might be supposed, for the dis- 
cussions of the society at Tarbolton. — There 
were found some detached memoranda evidently 
prepared for these meetings ; and among others, 
Jie heads of a speech on the question mentio.-»ed 
in p. 27. in which, as might be expected, ha 
takes the imprudent side of the question. The 
following may serve as a farther specimen of 
the questions debated in the society at Tarloi- 
ton : — " Whether do we derive more happiu-.ss 
from love or friendship ? — Whether between 
friends, who have no reason to doubt each 
other's friendship, there should be any re- 
serve P— Whether is the savage man, or the 
peasant of a civilized country, in the most 
happy situation ? — Wnether is a young mar. of 
the lower ranks of life likeliest to be happy, who 
has got a good education, and his mind well 
informed, or he who has just the education and 
im'of tnation of those arouud him ? ' ' 



BURXa LIFE. 



•• The scenerr wa* nearly taken lironi real 
life, though I aiLr« sijr, m&daui, jon do not 
recollect it, M I b«Iiev« you snfu-ccij noticed 
the poetic reveur a» h* wiadered by yon. I 
had rored out as chmco directed, in the favour- 
ite haunt* of my muse, on the baiiks of the 
Ayr, to riew nature in all the gaiety of the 
vernal year. The eveniuis: iun was flaming 
over the distant western hills : not a breath 
Btirr«d the crimson opening' blossom, or the 
Ter<tant spreading leaf. It >raa a ^olden mo- 
ment for a poetic heart. I listened to the fea- 
thered -warblers, pooring their harmony on CTery 
band, with a eoageuiai kindred regard, and 
frequently turned out of my path, lest I should 
disturb their little sonjs, or frighten them to 
another station. Surely, said I to myself, he 
must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of 
your harmonious endeavour to please him, can 
eye your elusive flights to discover your secret 
recesses, and to rob you of all the property 
nature gives you, yonr dearest comforts, your 
helpless neetlings. Even the hoary hawthorn- 
twig that shot across the way, what heart at 
such a time but must have been interested in 
i!i welfare, and wished it preserved from the 
ru<tely-browsiag cattle, or the withering eastern 
bi^^st ? Such was the scene, and such the hour, 
» ben in a corner (rf my prospect, I spied one 
ot the fairest pieces of Nature's workmanship 
that ever crowned a poetic landscape, or met a 
p.iet'seye, tbosa visionary bards excepted who 
t-.ild commerce with aerial beings J Had 
<. alamny and Villany taken my walk, they had 
a' that moment sworn eternal peace with such 
Hc.obiect. 

' • What an hoar of inspiration for a poet ! It 
would have raised plain, dull, historic prose 
into metaphor and measure. 

" The inclosed song was the work of my re- 
turn home; and perhaps it but poorly answer* 
what might be expectsd from such a scene. 
•• I have the honoiu to be, 
*• Madam. 
"Your most obedient, and very 
•• humble servant, 
" ROBERT BURNS. " 

Twas sTen— the dewy fields were green, 

On every blade the pearU hang ;* 
The Zephyr wanton 'd round the bean. 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang ; 
In every glen the mavis sang, 

All nature listening seemed the while, 
Except where green- wood echoes tang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward strayed, 

My heart rejoiced in nature's joy, 
Wtien mtsing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanc»i to spy ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye. 

Her air like nature's vernal smile, 
P-ifectioa whispered passing by, 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle If 



• Hang, Scotticism for Aun^. 

t Varialivn. The lily's hue and rose's dye 

Bespok« the lass u'Ballochmyle. 



When roving through the garden gay. 
Or wandering in the lonely wild ; 

But woman, nature's darling child ! 
There all her charms she does compile i 

Even there her other works are foil'd 
By the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

had she been a eountry maid. 

And I the happy country swain, 
Though sheltered in the lowest shed 

That every rose on Scotland's plain. 
Through weary winter's wind and rain. 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil. 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonny lass o' Ballochmyla. 

Tlien pride might climb the slippery steep. 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep. 

Or downward seek the Indian mine: 
Gi^-e me the cot below the piue. 

To tend the flocks or till the soil. 
And erery day have joy a divine. 

With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

In the manuscript book in which our poet 
has recounted this incident, and into whuh 
the letter and poem are copied, he complains 
that the Jady made no reply to his effusions, 
and this appears to have wounded his self-love. 
It is not, however, difficult to find an excuse 
for her silence. Burns was at that time little 
known, and where kuown at all, noted rather 
for the wild strength of his humour, than for 
those strains of tenderness, in which he after- 
wards BO much excelled. To the lady her,eli 
his name had perhaps never been mentioned, 
and of such a poem she mieht not consider 
herself as the proper judge. Uer modesty might 
prevent her from perceiving that the muse of 
TibuUus breathed in this nameless poet, and 
that her beauty was awakening strains destined 
to immortality on the banks of the Ayr. It 
may be conceived, also, that supposing the 
verses duly appreciated, delicacy might find 
it ditScult to express its acknowledgments. 
The fervent imagination of the rastio bard pos- 
sessed more of tenderness than of respect. In- 
stead of raising himself to the condition of tba 
object of his admiration, he presumed to reduce 
her to his owi;, and to strain this high-burn 
beaoty to his daring oosom. It is true. Burns 
might have fonnd precedents for snch freedoms 
amung the poets of Greece and Rome, and in- 
deed of every country. And it is not to be 
denied, that lovely women have generally sub- 
mitted to this sort of profanation with patieuc*, 
and even with good humour. To what purpose 
is it to repine at a Luisfortune which is the ne- 
cessary consequence of their own charms, or 
to remonstrate with a d«t€ription of men who 
are incapable of control t 



nymph of Ballochmyle, whoever she may have 
been, did not reject with scorn the adorations 
of uur poet, though she received them wi<h 
silent modesty and dignified reserve. 

The sensibility of our bard's temper, and 
the force ot his imagination, e^pgsed him in a 



82 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



particular manner to the impressions of beauty; 
siiJ these qnalities united to his impassioned 
eloijuence gave him in turn a powerful inllu- 
«iice over the female heart. the banks of 
tiie Ayr formed the scene of youthful passions 
cf a still tenderer nature, the history of which 
if would be improper to reveal, were it even in 
our power, and the traces of which will soon 
l-e discoverable only in those strains of nature 
end sensibility to which they gave birth. 
The song entitled Highland -Vary, is known 
to relate to one of these attachmenls. " It 
was written, " says our bard, " on one of the 
most interesting passages of myyouthful days. " 
The object of this passion died early in life, 
and the impression left on the mind of Burns 
seems to have been deep and lasting. Several 
years afterwards, when he was removed to 
Nithsdale, he gave vent to the sensibility of his 
recollections in the following imp;i!>!;ioned 
'ines : in the manuscript book trom whicli we 
extract them, they are addressed Wo Maiy in 
Ueavm I 

rhon lingering star, with lessening ray, 

'Iliat Icvest to greet the early morn, 
* gain thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from ray soul was torn, 
O >iary ! dear departed shade ', 

Where is thy blissful place of rest ? 
Sec-st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear 'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
rhat sacred hour can I forget. 

Cud I forget the hallow 'd grove. 
Where by the winding Ayr we met. 

To live one day of parting love I 
Eternity will not eiiace 

Those records dear'of transports past ; 
riiv image at our last embrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 
Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, 

O 'erhung with wild woods thickening green : 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Tvfined amorous round the raptured Hiuene. 
Tlie flowers sprang wanton to be press 'd. 

The birds sang love on every spray. 
Till too, too soon the glowing west 

Proclaim 'd the speed of winged day. 
Stiil o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes. 

And fondly broods with miser care ; 
Time but the if-^re_-sion deeper makes, 

As streams tt '»r channels deeper wear. 
M\ Marv, deal "parted shade : 

"Where is th, blissful place of rest ? 
Se^st thou thy lover lowly laid ': 

H ear 'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

To the delineations of the poet by himself, 
hy his brother, and by his tutor, these additions 
".re necessary, in order that the reader may see 
his character in its various aspects, ar.d may 
have an opportunity of forming a just notion of 
the variety, as well as the power of his original 



* The history of the poems formerly printed, 
will he found at the end of the volume. it is 
•i»t-re inserted in the words of Gilbert Burns, 
•who, in a letter addressed to the Editor, has 
giten the following account of the friends 
which Robert's talents procured him before lie 
left Ayrshire or attracted the notice ot the 
world. 



" The farm of Mossgiel, at the time of our 
coming to it (Martinmas, 1783), was the pro. 
perty of the earl of Loudon, but was held in 
tack by Wr Gavin Hamilton, writer in Mauch- 
line, from whom we had our bargain; who had 
thus an opportunity of knowing and showing a 
sincere regard for my brother, Before he knew 
that he was a poet. The poet's estimation of 
him, and the strong outlines of his character, 
may be collected from the dedication to this 
gentleman. When the publication was begun, 
Nr H. entered very warmly into its interests, 
and promoted the subscription very extensively. 
Mr Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr, is a man of 
worth and taste, of warm aft'eclions, aad con- 
nected with a most respectable circle of friends 
and relations. It is to this gentleman Tke 
Cotter's Saturday Mght is inscribed. The 
poems of my brother, which I have formerly 
mentioned, no sooner came into his hands, tharv 
they were quickly known, and well received in 
the extensive circle of Mr Aiken's friends, 
which gave them a sort of currency, necessary 
in this wise world, even for the good reception 
of things valuable in themselves. But Mr 
Aiken not only admired the poet ; as soon as he 
became acquainted with him, he showed tiie 
warmest regard for the man, and did every 
thing in liis power to forward his interest anil 
respectability. The Epistle to a Young Fritiud 
was addressed to this gentleman's son, Mr A. 
U. Aiken, now of Liverpool. He was the 
oldest of a young family, who were taught to 
receive my brother with respect as a man of 
genius and their father's friend, 

" The Brigs of Ayr is inscribec co .John 
Eallantine, Esq. banker in Ayr ; one of those 
gentlemen to whom my brother was introduced 
by Mr Aiken. He interested himself very 
waimly in my brother's concerns,and constantly 
showed the greatest friendship and attachment 
to him. When the Kilmarnock edition was all 
sold off, and a considerable demand pointed out 
the propriety of publishing a second edition, 
Mr Wilson, who had printed the first, was 
asked if he would print the second, and take hit 
chance of being paid from the lirst sale. I'his 
he declined ; and when this came to iMr Bal- 
lantine's knowledge, he generous'y ofi'ered to 
accommodate Robert with what money he might 
need for that purpose ; but advised him to go lo 
Edinburgh, as the fittest place for publish-i:?. 
When he did go to Edinburgh, his friends 
advised him to publish again by subscription, 
so that he did not need to accept this ofler. 
Mr William Parker, merchant in Kilmarnock, 
was a subscriber for thirty-five copies of the 
Kilmarnock edition. This may perhaps appear 
not deserving of notice here ; but if the com- 
parative obscurity of the poet, at this period, 
be taken into consideration, it appears to me a 
greater effort of generosity, than many things 
which appear more brilliant in my brother'* 
future history. 

"Mr Robert Muir, merchant in Kilmarnock, 
was one of those friends Robert's poetry had 
procured him, and one who was dear to his 
heart. I'his gentleman haa no very great 
fortune, or long line of dignified ancestry : bnt 
what Robert says of Captain .Matthew Header- 



BURNS LIFE. 



3» 



because, as lias already been 
part ot bis history ii eoimected w iiii souie views i 
of the couditioa and manners of the humblest ; 
ranks of society, hitherto little observed, and , 
which will perhaps be found neither useless 

About the time of leaving his native country, 
.] his correspondence commences ; and in the 
series of letters now given to the world, the 
\ chief incidents of the remaining part of his life 
will be found. The authentic, though melan- 
choly record, will supersede in future the ne- 
aessity of any extended narrative. 

Burns set out for Edinburgh in the month 
of November, 1786, and arrived on the second 
day afterwards, having performed his journey 
on foot. He was furnished with a letter of 
introduction to Dr Blacklock, from the gentle- 
man to whom the Doctor had addressed the 
letter which is represented by our bard as the 
immediate cause of his visiting the Scottish 
metropolis. He was acquainted with Mr 
Stewart, professor of Moral Philosophy in the 
University, and had been entertained by that 
gentleman at Catrine, his estate in Ayrshire. 
He had been introduced by Mr Alexander Ual- 
zel to the Earl of Glencairn, who had expressed 
his high approbation of his poetical talents. 
He had friends therefore who could introduce 
him into the circles of literature as well as of 
fashion, and his own manners and appearance 
exceeding every expectation that could have 
been formed of them, he soon became an object 
of general curiosity and admiration. The 
following circumstance contributed to this in a 

considerable degree At the time when Burns 

arrived iu Edinburgh, the periodical paper. 



son might be said of him with great propriety, 
tfuU ke keld tlie pateiU cj' his honours iynmediateij/ 
from Mmii^ldy God. Nature had indeed mark- 
ed him a gentleman in the most legible charac- 
ters. He died while yet a young man, soon 
after the publication of ray brother's 4rst 
Edinburgh edition. Sir William Cunningham 
of Robertland, paid a very llattering attention, 
and showed a good deal of friendship for the 
poet. Before his going to Edinburgh, as well 
as after, Robert seemed peculiarly pleased with 
Professor Stewart's friendship and conversa- 

"But of all the friendships which Robert 
acquired in Ayrshire or elsewhere, none seemed 
more agreeable to him than that of Mrs Dunlop 
of Dunlop, nor any whicli has been more nni. 
furmly and constantly exerted in behalf of him 
and of his family ; of which, were it proper, I 
could give many instances. Robert was on the 
point of setting out for Edinburgh before Airs 
Dunlop had heard of him. About the time of 
my brother's publishing in Kilmarnock, she 
ha.d been atHicted with a long and severe illness, 
which had reduced her mind to the most dis- 
Uessing state of depression. In this situation, 
a copy of the printed poems was laid on her 
tnble by a friend, and happening to open on 
The Cotter 's Satardaj/ Night, she read it over 
with the greatest pleasure and surprise : the 
poet's description of the simple cottagers, oper- 
ating on her mind like the charm of a powerful 
fxorcist, expelling the demon ennui and restor- 
ing her to her wonted inward harmony and 
Mtisfaciioo. — Mrs Dunlop scut oS' a person 



entitled The Lounger, was publishing, every 
Saturday producing a successive number. Hit 
poems had attracted the notice of the gentle- 
men engaged in that undertaking, and the 
ninety-seventh number of those unequal, 
though frequently beautiful essays, is devoted 
to An Account of Robert Bums, Ike Ayrshire 
ploughman, with extracts from his Foems, 
written by the elegant pen of f Jr Mackenzie. * 
I'he Lounger had an extensive circulation 
among persons of taste and literature, not ia 
Scotland only, but in various parts of England, 
to whose acquaintance therefore our bard wa« 
immediately introduced. The paper of Mr 
Mackenzie was calculated to introduce him 
advantageously. The extracts are well select- 
ed ; the criticisms and reflections are judicious 
as well as generous ; and in the style and 
sentiments there ia that happy delicacy, by 
which the writings of the author are so emi- 
nently distinguished. The extracts from 
Burns' Poems in the ninety-seventh number cf 
2'Ae Lounger, were copied into the London, as 
well as into many of the provincial papers, and 
the fame of our bard spread throughout tha 
island. Of the manners, character, and con- 
duct of Burns at this period, the following ac- 
count has been given by Mr Stewart, in a letter 
to the editor, which he is particularly happy to 
have obtained permission to insert in thes* 



Professor Dugald Stewart of Edinburgh to Dr 
James Currie of Liverpool, 



express io Mossgiel, distant fifteen or sixteen 
miies, with a very obliging letter to my brother, 
desiring him to send her half a dozen copies of 
his poems, if he had them to spare, and beggin» 
he would do her the pleasure of calling at 
Dunlop house as soon as convenient. This 
was the beginning of a correspondence which 
ended only with the poet's life. The last use 
he made of his pen was writing a short letter 
to this lady a few days before his death. 

•' Col. Fullarton, who afterwards paid a 
very particular attention to the poet, was not 
in the country at the time of his first commenc- 
ing author. At this distance of time, and i% 
the hurry of a wet day, snatched from labori- 
ous occupations, I may have forgot some per- 
sons who ought to have been mentioned on thig . 
occasion, for which, if it come to my know- 
ledge, I shall be heartily sorry. ' ' 

The friendship of airs Dunlop was of parti- 
cular value to Burns. This lady, daughter and 
sole heiress to Sir Thomas Wallace of Ciaigie, 
andlineal descendant of the illustrious Wallace, 
the first of Scottish warriors, possesses the quali- 
ties of mind suited to her high lineage. Pre- 
serving, in the decline of liie", the generous af- 
fections of youth ; her admiration of the poet 
was soon accompanied by a sincere friendship 
for the man ; which pursued him in after Ufa 
through good and evil report ; in poverty, ia 
sickness, and in sorrow ; and which is contin- 
ued to his infant family, now deprived of their 

* This paper has been attributed, but iuia 
properly, to Lord Craig, one of the Scottisti 



S4 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRAST. 



Biy house in Aj-sbire, t02;ether witij out com. 
Dion frieod Mr John ^iackeusie, sar^eon in 
&Iaa=bhne, to whom I am indebted for the 
pleasure of hi^ acquaictance. I a.'D enabled to 
tuennoa ••>« date particularlj, by some verses 
wcicB Buro* wrote alter he returueti home, and 

Ja which toadajof oar meeting is recorded 

hi J ^scelleat and mnch lamsnted friead, the 
Iat« Basil, Lord Daer, &app«Ded to arrive at 
ie day, and by the kindness and 



fraos: 



. left a 



Qicd of the poet, which never was eflaceu. 
tns »cr-ses 1 ail.ud" to aie anioi:^ ibe luost 
Bjpi=rtect of his pif>c>* ; but a few stanzas may 
perhaps lie an object of cnriosity to jou, both 
on account of the character to which they re- 
late, and of the light which they tflrow on the 
situation and feelinics of the writer, before his 
natne was known to the public^ 



Jad^ey, author of 'be rerj interwting account 
of Michael Bruce, in the 36th namber of die 
Mirror. 

^ This poem is as follows ; 

This wot ve al! whom it concernsj 
1, Kiiynjer Robin, aiias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er -to-be-for-rotten day, 
Sae far I sprachled sp the brae* 

I dinner'd wi' a Lcrd. _^ 

I've been at dn]n&:en wriier$' feasts, "^ 
Kay, baeo bitch-foa 'maaff ?odiv priasti, 

AVi" reverence be it spoke'o; 
I've even join'd the honour 'd jcruiB, 
VVnen mighty Squireships of the qu< tihi. 

Their hydra drouth did slokeib 

But wi' a Lorri — stand ont my shin, 
A Lord— a Peer—an Earl's son. 

Up biffber yet my bonnet ; 
An' sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa. 
Our peerai-e he o"erlooks them a', 

As I look o'er my sonnet. - 

But O for Hogarth's magic power ! 
■ To show Sir Bardy's willyart glowr. 

And how he stared and stammer 'd, 
When goavan, as if led wi* braiiks. 
An' stuoipan on hts ploughman shanks, 
U» in the parlour hammer'd. 



Except good gense and soi 

An' (what surprised me) 

I marked uoi"*"' " 



I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, 

The gentle pride, the lordly state, 

Tbe fien' a pride, oae pnde had he. 
Nor sauce, i:or state that I codid see, 
Mair than an honest ptoughmdn. 

Then from his Lordship 1 shall learn. 
Henceforth to meet with unconoerB, 
One rank a£ weii's anmhtr ; 



" I cannot positively say, at this distafics of 
lime, whether, at the period of our tirst ac- 
quaintance, tbe Kilmarnock edition of bis 
poems hafl beeu just published, or was yet in 
the press. I sospect that the latter was the 
case, as 1 have still in my possession copies, in 
his own band-writing, of some .if his favourits 
perforraaoces ; particularly of his verses *'on 
turning cp a JJoase with his plough ;" — "on 
the MoQotain Daisy; "and '•the Lament."' 
On my reium to Edinburgh, 1 showed tbe 
volume, and iceaiioned what 1 knew of the 
author's history, to several of my friends, and, 
imong others, to 3Ir Henry Aiackensie, who 
Crst recommended him to public aotic« in the 
&7th number of The L-iunger. 

•• At this time Barna's prospect* in life were 
so extremely gloomy, that he had serioasly 
formed a plan of going cut to Jamaica ia a 
very bumble situation, not, however, without 
larsenting, that iiis want of patronage should 
force him to think of a project so repugnant to 
bis feelings, when his ambition aimed et lo 
highta- an object than the station of an excise- 

** His'maniiers were then, as (hey continued 
ever afttrwards, simple, manly, and indepeii- 
Uent ; strongly expressive of conscious genius 
Slid worth ; bat without any thing that indicat- 
ed torwardaess, arrogance, or vanity. He took 
his share in conversation, bnt not more than 
belonged to him; acd listened with apparent 
attealion and deference, on subjecU where his 
want of education deprived him of the means 
of information. If there had been a little mure 
of gentleness and accommodation in hi» temper, 
he "would, 1 think, have been still csore inter, 
esting ; bnt he had been accustomed to give 
lav? in tbe circle of hb ordinary acqnaioiance ; 
and his dread of any thing approaching to 
tseaoness or seiviUty, tendered his manner 
somewhat decided aad'hard. Noticia?. perhaps, 
was more remarkable among bis various at- 
tainments, than the fluency, and precision, and 
orisLnality of his language, when he spoke in 
company | more pariicularly a* he aimed at 
purity in his tarn of expression, and avoided 
more Euccessfoily than must Scotciimeu, lh» 
peculiarities of Scottish phraseology. 

•* He come to Ediiiburj:h eariy ia the winter 
following, and remained thsre for ie^eral 
months. By whose advice be :ouk this step, I 
am unable to say. Perhaps it was suggested 
only by his own coriosiiy to see a little more 
of the world; but, 1 confess, I dreaded (he 
conset^euces from the first, and always ivisbed 
that his porsuits and habit* should eoniiiiaethe 
same as in the former part of life; with the 
addition of, what I considered as then com. 
pletely within his reach, a good farm on moder. 
ate terms, ia a pari of the coautrj agreeable t« 
bis taste. 

' The attentions he received dtaricg his stay 



[• honest uxrlhy man need care, 

meet with uoSie youthful Daer, 

For he but meeta a brother. 

lese lines wul be read with no common 
Pit by ail who remember the nnafiecteit 
licily of appearance, ihe sweetness of coun- 
tenance and manners, and the nnsuspec:>og 
leuevuieuce of heart, of BasiL Lord Daer. 



Bl K.\S.— LITE. 



S5 



la tawB from all ranVs and descripliong of 
pct!>ons, were such as would have turued an; 
bead but bik own. I cunnot say tbat I could 
perceive anj nnfaTonrable edect which they 
left on his mind. He retained the laraa sim- 
plicity of niannerc and appearance which had 
strack me so forcibly when I brsl saw him in 
the country ; nor did he seem to feel any addi- 
tional self-importance from the number and 
rank of his new acquaintance. Hi« dreti wu 
perfectly suited to his station, plain and unpre- 
tending, with a sufficient attention to neatnesi. 
If I recollect ri^ht he always wore boots ; and, 
when OH iLort than usual ceremony, buck-skin 
breeches. 

*• The variety of his engagement!, while m 
Edinburgh, prevented me from seeing him bo 
often as 1 could have wished. In the course of 
the spring he called on me once or twice, at my 
request, early in the morning, and walked with 
me to Braid-Hills, in the neighbourhood of the 
town, when he charmed me still more by his 
private conversation, than he had ever done in 
company. He was passionately fond of the 
beauties of nature; and I recollect once he 
told me, when 1 was admiring a distant pros- 
pect in one of our morning walks, that the 
sight of so many smoking cottages gave a 
pleasure to his mi»d, which none could under- 
staud who had not witnessed, like himself, the 
happiness and the worth which they contained. 

' ■ la bis political principles he was then a 
Jacobite; which was perhaps owing partly to 
this, that his father was originally from the 
estate of Lord MareschaU. Indeed he did not 
appear to have thought much on such subjects, 
nor verj- consistently, ile had a tery strong 
sense of religion, and expressed deep regret *t 
the levity with which he had heard it treated 
occasionally in some eonvif ial meetings which 
he frequented. I speak of him as he wa£ in 
the winter of 17S()-7 ; for afterwards we met 
but seldom, and our conversations turned 
chiefly on his literary projects, or aia private 
affairs. 

•• I do not recollect whether it appears or 
. ct from any of your letters to me, tbat you 
Bad ever seen Burns.* If you have, it is 
superfluous for me to add, that the idea which 
his conversation conveyed of the powers of his 
mind, exceeded, if possible, that which is sug- 
gested by his writings. Among the poets whom 
I have happened to know, 1 have been struck, 
in more than one instance, with the unaccount- 
able disparity between their general talents, 
and the occasional inspirations of their more 
favoured moments. But all the faculties of 
Burns '■ mind were, as far as I could judge, 
equally vigorous ; and nls predilection for 
poetry was rather the result of his own enthu- 
siastic and impassioned temper, than of a 
genius exclusively adapted to that species of 
composition. From his conversation I should 
hare pronounced him to be fitted to excel in 
whatever walk of unbitioa ho had chosen to 
exert his abilities. 

" Among the subjects on which' he was 
enstomed to dwell, the characters of the indi- 
viduals with whom he happened to meet, was 
ylaiuly • favoiu^ite one. The remarks he mad* 



The editor has seen and conversed \ 



on them, were always shrewd and pointed, 
though frequenlj^ inclining too much to sar- 
casm. His praise of tliose he loved wa« 
sometimes indiscriminate and extravagant ; but 
tnis. I suspect, proceeded rather from the 
caprice and humour of the moment, than front 
the eflects of attachment in blinding his judg- 
ment. His wit was ready, and always im- 
pressed with the marks of a vigorous under- 
standing ; but, to my taste, not often pleasing 
or happy. His attempts at epigram, in his 
printed works, are the only performances, 
perhaps, that he has produced, totally unwor- 
thy of his genius. 

•• In summer, 1787, I passed some weeks 
in Ayrshire, and saw Burns occasionally. I 
think that he made a pretty long excursion 
that season to the Highlands, and tbat he also 
visited what Beat* ie calls the Arcadia n ground 
of Scotland, upon the banks of the Teviot and 
the Tweed. 

♦' I should have mentioned before, that not» 
withstanding various reports I heard daring 
the preceding winter, of Burns 'g predilection 
for convivial and not very select society, 1 
should have concluded in favour of his habits 
of sobriety, from all of him that ever fell under 
my own observation. He told me indeed 
himself, that the weakness of his stomach was 
such as to deprive him entirely of any merit in 
his temperance. I was, however, somewhat 
alarmed about the effect of his now compara- 
tively sedentary and luxurious life, when he 
confessed to me, the first night he spent in my 
house, after his winter's campaign in town, that 
he had been much disturbed when in bed, by 
a palpitation at his heart, which, he said, was 
a.coniplaint to which he had of late become 
subject. 

" In the course of the same season, I was 
led by curiosity to attend for an hour or two a 
ftlasonic lodge in Mauchline, where Burns 
presided. He had occasion to make short 
unpremeditated compliments to difterent indi- 
viduals from whom he had no reason to expect 
a visit, and every thing he said was happily 
conceived, and forcibly as well as fluently ex- 
pressed. If I am not mistaken, he told me, 
that in that village, before going to Edinburgh, 
he had belonged to a small club of such of tha 
inhabitants as had a taste for books, when 
they used to converse and debate on any inter- 
esting questions that occurred to them in the 
course of their reading. His manner of speak- 
ing in public had evidently the laarks of some 
practice in extempore elocution. 

♦' I must not omit to mention, what I have 
always considered as characteristical in a high 
degree of true genius, the extreme facility and 
good nature of his taste, in judging of the 
composition! of othen, when there was any 
real ground for praise. I repeated to him 
many passages of English poetry with which 
be was unacquainted, and have more than once 
witnessed the tears of admiration and rapture 
with which h* heard them. The collection of 
songs by Dr Aiken, which I first put into his 
hands, he read with nnraixed delight, notwith- 
standing his former efforts in that very difficult 
sp c c« of writing ; and I have little doubt that 
it h^dsome effect ia polishing his subsequent 
«sflipodtions. 

" In judging of press, I do out think kit 
taste was eqaul!^ sound. I once reed to hia 



8S 



DIA.AIOND CABLNET l.iBRARY. 



a passage or two in Franklin's Works, which ' 
t thought very happily executed, upon the ! 
model of Addison ; but he did not appear to 
relish, or to perceive the beauty wliich they 
derived from their exquisite simplicity, and 
spoke of them with inditlerence, when com- 
pared with the point, and antithesis, and 
quaintness of Junius. The influence of this 
taste is very perceptible in his own prose com- 
positions, although their great and various ex- 
cellencieu render some ,of them scarcely less 
objects of wonder than his poetical perfor- 
mances. The late l)r Robertson used to say, 
that, considering his education, the former 
seemed to him the more extraordinary of the 

"His memory was uncommonly retentive, 
at least for poetry, of which he recited to nie 
frequently long compositions with the most 
minute accuracy. They were chiefly ballads, 
and other pieces in our Scottish dialect ; great 
part of them (he told me^ he had learned in his 
childhood, from his mother, who delighted in 
such recitations, and whose poetical taste, rude 
as it probably was, gave, it is presumable, the 
first direction of her son's genius. 

"Of the more polished verses which acci- 
dentally fell into his hands in his early years, 
he mentioned paticularly the recommendatory 
poeras, by diflerent authors, prefixed to Her- 
VBj/'s Mediialions ; a book which has always 
had a very wide circulation among such of the 
country people of Scotland, as atfect to unite 
some degree of taste wiih their religious studies. 
And these poems (although they are certainly 
below mediocrity) he continued to read with a 
degree of rapture beyond expression. He took 
notice of this fact himself, as a proof how much 
the taste is liable to be influenced by accidental 
circumstances. 

" Uis father appeared to me, from the ac- 
count he gave of him, to have been a respect- 
able and worthy character, possessed of a mind 
superior to what might have been expected 
from his station in life. He ascribed much 
of his own principles and feelings to the early 
impressions he had received from his instruc- 
tions and example. I recollect that he once 
applied to him (and he added, that the passage 
was a literal statement of fact), the two last 
lines of the following passage in the Minstrel, 
the V. hole of wkich he repeated with great 
enthusiasm ; 

« Shall I be left forgotten in the dust. 
When fate relenting, lets the flower revive ; 

Shall nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 
Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to 

Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive 

With disappointment, penury, and pain ? 
if o ! Heaven's immortal spring shall yet 

And man's majestic beauty bloom again, 
>right through th' eternal year of love's trium- 
phant reign. 



" With respect to Burns's early education, 
I canno' say any thing with certainty. He 
always spoke with respect and gratitude of ths 
school-master who had taught him to read 



English; and who, Cndj-ig in his scholar a 
more than ordinary ardour .jr knowledge, had 
been at pains to instruct him in the grammati- 
cal principles of the language. He began the 
study of Latin, but dropped it before he Jiad 
finished the verbs. 1 have sometimes heard 
him quote a few Latin words, such as omnia 
vmcit amor, &c. but they seemed to be such as 
he had caught from conversation, and which 
he repeated by rote. I think he had a project 
after he came to Edinburgh, of prosecuting the 
study under his intimate friend, the late Mr 
Nicol, one of the masters of the grammar- 
school here ; but I do not know if he ever pro- 
ceeded so far as to make the attempt. 

"He certainly possessed a smattering of 
French ; and, if he had an affectation in any 
thing, it was in introducing occasionally a word 
or a phrase from that language. It is possibU 
that his knowledge in this respect might ba 
more extensive than I suppose it to be ; but 
this you can learn from his more intimate ac- 
quaintance. It would be worth while to in- 
quire, whether he was able to read the French 
authors with such facility as to receive from 
tliem any improvement to his taste. For my 
own part, I doubt it much — nor would I be • 
lieve it, but on very strong and pointed evi- 

" If my memory does not fail me, he was 
well instructed in arithmetic, and knew some- 
thing of practical geometry, particularly of 
surveying. — All his other attainments were 

" The last time I saw him was during the 
winter, 1788-89 ;* when he passed an evening 
with me at Drumsheugh, in the neighbour- 
hood of Edinburgh, where I was then living 
My friend Mr Alison was the only other ia 
company. I never saw him more agreeable or 
interesting. A present which iNir Alison sent 
him afterwards of his Essays on Taste, drew 
from Burns a letter of acknowledgment, which- 
I remember to have read with some degree of 
surprise at the distinct conception he appeared 
from it to have formed, of the several princi- 
ples of the doctrine of association. When I 
saw Mr Alison in Shropshire last autumn, I 
forgot to inquire if the letter be still in existence. 
If it is, you may easily procure it, by means of 
our friend Mr Houlbrooke. ' * 

The scene that opened on our bard in Edin- 
burgh was altogether new, and in a variety of 
other respects highly interesting, especially to 
one of his disposition of mind. To use an ex- 
pression of his own, he found himself "sud- 
denly translated from the veriest shades of life, " 
into the presence, and, indeed, into the society 
of a number of persons, previously known to 
him by report as of the highest distinction in his 
country, and whose characters it was natural 
for him to examine with no common curiosity. 

From the men of letters, in general, his re- 
ception was particulai-ly flattering. The late 
l>r Robertson, Dr Blair, Dr Gregory. Mr 
Stewart, Mr Mackenzie, and Mr Eraser Tytler, 



* Or rather 1789-90. I cannot speak with 
confidence with respect to the particular year. 
Some of my other "dates may possibly require 
correction, as I keep no journal of such oc- 



BURNS.- LIFE. 



Bsaj be mentioned in the list of those wlio per- 
ceived his uncommon talents, who acknow- 
ledged more especially his power in conversa- 
tion, and who interested themselves in the 
cultivation of his genius. In Edinburgh, 
literary and fashionable society are a good 
deal mixed. Our bard was an tcceptable 
guest in the gayest and most elevated circles, 
and frequently received from female beaury and 
elegance, those attentions above all others most 
grateful to him. At the table of Lord j\lon- 
boddo he was a frequent guest ; and while he 
enjoyed the society, and partook of the hospi- 
talities of the venerable Judge, he experienced 
the kindness and condescension of his lovely 
and accomplished daughter. The singular 
beauty of this joung lady was illumined by that 
happy expression of countenance which results 
from the union of cultivated taste and superior 
understanding, with the finest allections of the 
mind. The influence of such attractions waa 
not unfelt by our poet. " There has not beea 
any thing like Miss Burnet, " said he in a letter 
to a friend, " in all the combinations of beauty, 
grace, and goodness, the Creator has formed, 
since Milton's Eve on the lirst day of her ex- 
istence. " In hi^ Addrej:s to Eiimburgh, she 
is celebrated in a strain of still greater elevation: 

" Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye. 
Heaven 's beauties on my fancv shine ; 

I see the Sire of Love on high, ' 
And own his works indeed divine! " 

Tliis lovely woman died a few years after- 
wards in the flower of her youth. Our bard 
expressed his sensibility on that occasion, ia 
verses addressed to her memory. 

Among the men of rank and fashion. Burns 
v.as particularly distinguished by James, Earl 
iif Glencairn. On the motion of this noble- 
man, the Caledonian Hunt, (an association of 
the principal of the nobility and gentry of Scot- 
land,) extended their patronage to our bard, and 
admitted him to their gay orgies. He repaid 
their notice by a dedication of the enlarged and 
improved edition of his poems, in which he has 
celebrated their patriotism and independence in 
Yery animated terms. 

'* J congratulate my country that the blood of 
her ancient heroes runs uncontaminated ; and 
that, from your courage, knowledge, and public 
spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and 
liberty May corrup- 
tion shrink at your kindling indignant glance : 
ind may tyranny in the ruler, and licentious- 
ness in the people, equally lind in you an inexo- 
rable foe ! '' 

It is to be presumed that these generous sen- 
timents, uttered at an era singularly propi ' 
to independence of character and conduct, 
favourably received by the persons to whom 
they were addressed, and that they were echoed 
from every bosom, as well as from that of the 
Earl of Glencairn. This accomplished noble- 
man, a scholar, a man of taste and sensibility, 
died soon afterwards. Had he lived, and had 
bis power equalled his wishes, Scotland might 
still have exulted in the genius, instead of la- 
menting the early fate of her favourite bard. 

A taste for letters is not always conjoined 
with habits of temperance and reeularity ; and 
Edinburgh, at the period of which we speak, 
contained perhaps an uncommon proportion of 



of considerable talents, devoted to social 
jses, in which their talents were wasted 
and debased- 

Burns entered into several parties of this de- 
ecription, with the usual vehemence of his cbajs- 
acter. His generous atfections, his ardent elo- 
quence, his brilliant and daring imaginatioa, 
fitted him to be the idol of such associations ; 
and accustoming himself to conversation of un- 
limited range, and to festive indulgences that 
scorned restraint, he gradually lost some por- 
tion of his relish for the more pure, but less 
poignant pleasures, to he found in the circles 
of taste, elegance, and literature. The suddea 
alteration in hig habits of life operated on him 
physically as well as morally. The humble faire 
of an Ayrshire peasant he had exchanged for 
the luxuries of the Scottish metropolis, and 
the effects of this change on his ardent consti- 
tution could not be inconsiderable. But what- 
ever influence might be produced on his con- 
duct, his excellent understanding suffered no 
correspondent debasement. He estimated his 
friends and associates of every description at 
their proper value, and appreciated his own 
conduct with a precision that might give scope 
to much curious and melancholy reflection. He 
saw his danger, and at times formed resolutions 
to guard against it ; but he had embarked on 
the tide of dissipation, and was borne along its 

Of the state of his mind at this time, an au- 
theutic, though imperfect document reniams, 
in a book which he procured in the spring of 
1787, ibr the purpose, as he himself informs 
us, ol' recording in it whatever seemed worthy 
of observation. The following extracts may 



my remarks on the spot. Gray observes in a 
letter to Mr Palgrave, that, ' half a word fixed 
upon, or near the spot, is worth a cart-load or 
recollection. ' I don't know how it is with the 
world in general, but with me, making my re- 
marks is by no means a solitary pleasure. I 
want some one to laugh with me, some one to 
be grave with me, some one to please me, and 
help my discrimination, with his or her own 
remark, and at times, no doubt, to admire my 
acuteness and penetration. The world are so 
busied with selfish pursuits, ambition, vanity, 
interest, or pleasure, that very few think it 
worth their while to make any observation on 
what passes around them, except where that 
observation is a sucker, or branch of the darling 
plant they are rearing in their fancy. Nor am 
I sure, notwithstanding all the sentimental 
flights of novel-writers, and the sage philosophy 
of moralists, whether we are capable of so 
intimate and cordial a coalition of friendship, 
as that one man may pour out his bosom, his 
every thought and floating fancy, his very in- 
most soul, with unreserved confidence to an- 
other, without hazard of losing part of that re- 
spect which man deserves troin man; or 
from the unavoidable imperfections attending 
human nature, of one day repenting his conli- 

•'For these reasons 1 am determined to nicks 



33 



DLS.MOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



ihese pages my coofidant I will dtatch e 
character that any way strikes me, to the uesi 
ofiny power, with unshrinidag justice. I will 
insert anecdotes, and take down remarks, in the 
old law phrase, KjitAo!/</eud or favour. — Where 
I hit on any thing clever, my own applause 
will, in some measure, fea«t my ranity ; and 
I begging Patroclas' and Achate* pardon, I 
\ think a lock and key a aecantj, at lea&t equal 
to the bosom of any friend whatever. 

•♦ Mj own private etory likewise, my 1ot«- 
ftdventar<»t. nay ramblai ; the frowns and «mile« 
if fortua* oa my hardship; my poems and 
fragments, that mast ncTer iea the light, shall 
be occasionally ins*rt«d — In short, never did 
four shillings purchaM so much friendship since 
conhdeuce went lirtt to marset, or honesty was 
eet up to sale. 

"To these seemingly invidious, bat too just 
Ideas of human friendship, I would cheerfully 
fflake one exemption — the eouaexion between 
"wo persons of different sexes, when their 
mteresu are united and absorbed by tha tic of 
rfve— 

When thought m«9U thought, ere from the lips 

it part. 
Acd each warm wiab springs matasd horn the 

There, confidence — eoafidenee tkat exalts tbem 
the more in one another's opioien. that endears 
tbem the more to each other's hearts, anre- 
6<'rvedly ' reigns and revels. ' But this is not 
lay lot ; and, in ray sitnation, if I am wise, 
(which by the bye I have no great chance of 
bein^), my fate should be cast with the Psal- 
mist s sparrow ' to watch alone on the house 
tops. * — Oh, the pity I 



• There are few of the 



s evils nnder the 
sun give me more uneasiness and chagrin thaa 
the comparison how a man of genius, nay, of 
avowed worth, is received every where, with 
the reception which a mere ordinary character, 
decorated with the trappings and futile distina- 
iiona of fortune, meets. 1 imagine a man at 
abilities, his breast glowing witlT honest pride, 
conscious that men are born equal, still giving 
honoui' to wham honour is due ; he meets, at a 
great man'* table, a Squire something, or a 
Sit somebody ; he knows the noble landlord. 
ut heart, gives the bard, or whatever he is, a 
K,bare of his good wishes, beyond, perhaps, any 
oae at table; yet how will it mortify him to 
fi a fellow, whose abilities would scarcely 
.i.i.ve made an eigktpenny tailor, and whose 
heart is not worth three farthings, meet with 
attention and notice, that are withheld from 
the eon of genius and poverty ? 

" ia- uoble G has wounded me to 

»bd soul h-^e, because I dearly esteem, respect, 
anci iove hiu:. He showed so much attention 
— engrossing Kttention, one day, to the only 
blockhead at table (the whole company con- 
sisted of his lor Aship, dunderpate, and myself), 
>iiat 1 was within half a point of throwing 
down my gagt' of ci^^^ei^etuoea defiance, but 
be ^hook my hand, and looked so benevolently 
good at parting. God bless him ! though I 
should never see hira more, I shall love him 
\''atil my dying day I I am pleaseit to think I 



I em so capable of the throes of gratitude, u I 
' am miserably deficient in some other virtue*. 

•• With I am more at my ease. I 

never respect him with humble veneration; 

but when he kindly interests himself in my 

'fare, or still more when he descends from 



, my heart overflows with 
is called liking, ^Vhen he neglects me for ths 
Btere carcass of greatness, or when bia eye 
measures the diflFerence of onr points of eleva- 



The fntentiona of the poet in procuring this 
book, so fully described by himself, were very 
imperfectly executed. He has inserted in it 
few or no incidents, but several observations 
and reflections, of which the greater part that 
are proper for the public eye, will be found in- 
terwoven in the Tolume of his letters. The 
most curious particulars in the book are the 
delineatiotu of the character* he met with. 
These are not numerous ; biH they are chiefly 
of persons of distinction in the republic of 
letters, and nothing but the delicacy and re- 
spect due to living characters prevents us from 
committing them to the press. Though it 
appears that in his conversation he was some- 
times disposed to sarcastic remarks on the men 
with whon* he lived, nothing of this kind is 
discoverable in these more deliberate efforts of 
his understanding, which, while they exhibit 
great clearness oi discrimination, manifest aiso 
the wish, as well as the power, to bestow high 
and generous praises 

By the new edition of his poeias. Burns ae- 
qulred a sum of money that enabled him not 
only to partake of the pleasures of Edinburgh, 
but to gratify a desire he had long entertained, 
of visiting those parts of his native country, 
most attractive by their beauty or their |;ran- 
deur ; a desire which the return of summer na- 
turally revived. The scenery on the banks of 
the Tweed, and of its tributary streams, strongly 
interested his fancy ; and, accordingly, he left 
Edinlrwgh on the 6th of May, 1787, on a tow 
Ihrou^ a country so much celebrated in the 
rural aongs of Scotland. He travelled on 
horseback, and was accompanied, during some 
part of his journey, by Mr Ainslie, now writer 
to the signet, a gentleman who enjoyed much 
of his friendship and of his conbdence. Of 
this tour a journal remains, which, however, 
contains only occasional remarks on the scen- 
ery, and which is chiefly occupied with an ac 
count of the author's different stages, and 
with his observations on the various characters 
to whom he was introduced. In the course of 
this tour he visited >lr Ainslie of Berrywell, 
the father of his companion ; Ml Brydone, the 
Celebrated traveller, to whom he carried a let- 
ter or introduction from Mr Mackenzie; the 
Rev Dr Somerville «f Jedburgh, the historian j 
air and Mrs Scott of Wauchope ; Dr Elliot, 
physician, retired to a romantic spot on the 
banks of the Roole ; Sir Alexander Don ; Sir 
James Mall of Dunglass; and a great variety 
of other respectable characters. Every where 
the fame of the poet had spread before him, 
and every where he received the most hospi- 
table and flattering attentions. At Jedburgh 
he eontinued several days, and was honoured 



BURNS—LIFE. 



.89 



by th« ma^traUs with the freedom of their 
borough. 'Dia following ma J serve as a apt- 
•im«a of this tour, which the perpetDa! re- 
ference to living characters prevents oiur giviog 
at large. 

" Saturday, May 6. Left Edinborg h—Lam- 
mermair bills, miserably dreary in general, 
but at time* 'wy picturesque. ^ 

" LaQson-«dge, a glorious riew of the Merse. 
Reach Berrywell- . . . The family- 
meeting with my eompagnon di voyage, very 
eharmiag : particularly the sister. . . . 

•' Sunday. Weat to charch at Dunse. 
Heard Dr Bowmaker. . . . 

*• Monday. Coldstream — glorious river 
Tweedy-clear and majestic— fiae bridge — diae 
at Coldgtream with MrAinslie and Mr Foreman. 
Beat Mr Foreman iu a dispute about Voltaire. 
Driok tea at Leunel-Hoase with Mr aad Mrs 
Brydoae. . . . Recf^ption extremely Matur- 
ing. Sleep at Coldstream. 

•« Tuetday, Breakfast at Kelso — channin^ 
situation of the tovira— tine bridge over tbe 
Tweed. Enchanting views and prospects on 
both side* of the river, especially on the Scotch 
side. , . . Visit Roxburgh Palace— fine 
situation of it. Rams of Roxburgh Castle — 
a hoily-bosh growing where James the Second 
was accidentally killed by the bursting of 
cannon. A small old religious ruin and a tine 
old garden planted by the religious, rooted 
and destroyed by a Ilotteutot, a maitre d' hotel 
of the Duke 'si — Climate and soil of Berwick, 
shire, and even Roxburghshire, snperior to Ayr- 
shire — bad roads— toruip and sheep husbandry 
their great improveraenla. . . . Low mar- 
kets, consequently low lands — magniticeuce of 
farmers and t'arm-houses. Come up the Tevi 
ot, and up the J ad to Jedburgh, to iie« and so 
wish myself good night. 

•• Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr Fair. . 
, . Charming romantic situation of Jed- 
bnrgh, with gardens and orchards, inter- 
mingled among the hoijses, and the ruin* of a 
once luagniticent cathedral. All the towns 
here have the appearance of old rude grandeur, 
but extremely idle. — Jed, a fine romantic little 
river. Dined with Capt. Rutherford, . . . 
return to Jedburgh. Walked ap tbe Jed with 
some ladies to be shown Love-i&ne, and Black> 
burn, two fairy scenes. Introduced to Mr 
Poits, writer, and to Mr Somerville, the 
clergyman of the parLsb, a man, and a gentle- 
man, but sadlj addicted to punning. 



•' Jedburghy Saturday, Was presented by 
the magistrates vrith th« frwdom of the town. 

'• Took farewell of Jedburgh, with _*ome 
melancholy sensations. 

"Monday, May 14, Edto. Dine with the 
farmer's club — all gentlemen talking of high 
matters — each of them keeps a huuter from 
X<30 to L50 value, and attends the fox-hunting 
club in the country. Go out with Mr Ker, une 
of the club, and a frieud of .Mr Ainslie's, to 
sleep. In his mind and manners, .Mr Ker is 
ai.tonishingly like my dear old firiend Robert 
Muir — every thing in his house elegant. He 
otters to accompany me in my English tour. 

•' Tuetday. Dine with Sir Alexander Don ; 
a very wet day. . . . Sleep at Mr Ker's 
i^ain, and set out next day for Melrose— vi&it 



Drybai^h a fine old mined abbey, by the way. 
Ct«>s8 the Leader, and corns up the Tweed to 
Melrose. Dine there, and visit that far-famed 
;as rain — Come to Selkirk ap the banks 
of Ettrick. The wbois country hereabouts, 
both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably 
stony." 

Having spent three weeks m exploring this 
interesting scenery. Burns crossed over into 
Northumberland. Mr Ker and Mr Hood, 
two gentlemen with whom he had become ac- 
quainted in the course of his tour, accompanied 
him. He visited Alnwick Castle ; the princely 
seat of the Duke of Northumberland; the 
hermitage and old castle of Warksworth ; 
Morpeth, and Newcastle. — In this town ha 
spent two days, and then proceeded to the 
Boutb-west by Hexham and VV ardrue, !0 Oar- 
lisle. — After spendin=r a few days at Orii'iie 
with his friend Mr Mitchell, he retu»-ne«} into 
Scotland, and at Annan his Joornal terminates 
abruptly. 

Of the various person* with whom he be- 
came acquainted in the coarse of this journey, 
he has, in general, given soma account ; and 
almost always a favourable oi«. I'hat on the 
banks of the Tweed and of tbe Teviot, our 
bard should find nymphs that were beautiful, 
is what might be eooiidentiy presumed. Two 
of ibese are particularly described in his joomal. 
Bat it does not appear that the scenery, or its 
inhabitants, produced any effort of bis muse, 
as it was to have been wished and expr?cted. 
From Annan, Burns proceeded to li mifries, 
and th<^nce, throogh Sanquhar, to Mossgiel, 
near Mauchliue, ia Ayrshire, where he arrived 
about the 8th of June, 1787, after an absence 
of six busy aad evenlfal months. It will be 
easily conceived with what pleasure and pride 
he was received by his mother, his brothers, 
and sisters. He had left them poor, and com- 
paratively friendless ; he returned to them high 
in public estimation, and easy in his cirjum- 
stances. He reiarned to them unchanged in 
his ardent affections, and ready to share with 
them to the attericost farthing, the pittance 
that fortsae had bestowed. 

Having remained witn them & few days, he 
proceeded again to Edinburgh, and immediate- 
ly set eut on a journey to the Highlands. Of 
this tour no particulars have been found aiaong 
his manuscripts. A letter to his friend Mr 
Ainslie, dated Arrachas, near Crvchairbas, by 
Lochleary, June 28, 178o, commences as fol- 

'*I write you this on my tour through a 
country where i.avag8 streams rumble over 
savage mountains, thinly overspread with sav- 
age {locks, which starvingiy support as savage 
inhabitants. My list stage was Inverary — to- 
morrow night's stage, Dumbarton. I ought 
sooner to have answered your kind letter, but 
ysa know I am a man of ni:\ny ^ma. ' ' 

From this journey Burns returned to his 
ii-iends in Ayrshire, with whom he spent the 
month of July, renewing his friendships, and 
extending his acijuaintaace throughout the 
county, where he was now very generally 
known and admired. In August he again 
visited Edinburgh, whence Be undertook 
another journey towards the middle of this 
month, in company with Mr M. Adair, now 
Dr Adair of Harrowgate, of which this 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



^^ntleman has favoured us with the following 

". Burns and I left Edinburgh together in 
August, 1787, We rode by Linlithgow and 
Carron, to Stirling. We visited the iron- works 
at Carron, with which the poet was forcibly 
struck. The resemblance between that place, 
and its inhabitants, to the cave of Cyclops, 
which must have occurred to every classical 
visitor, presented itself to Burns. At Stirling 
the prospects from the castle strongly inter- 
ested him ; in a former visit to which, his 
national feelings had been powerfully excited 
by the ruinous and roofless state of the hall in 
which the Scottish Parliaments had frequent. 
iy been held. His indignation had vented it- 
^;elf in some imprudent, but not unpoetical 
lines, which had given much ofiFencs, and which 
he took this opportunity of erasing, by breaking 
the pane of the window at tha iun on whicb 
ihey were written. 

•'At Stirling we met with a company of 
travellers from Edinburgh, among whom was 
a character in many respects congenial with 
that of Burns. Tliis was Nicol, one of the 
teachers of the High Grammar- School at 
Edinburgh — the same wit and power of con- 
versation ; the same fondness for convivial 
society, and thoughtlessness of to-morrow, 
characterized both. Jacobitical principles in 
politics were common to both of them ; and 
these have beeu suspected, since the revolution 
of France, to have given place in each, to 
opinions apparently opposite. I regret that I 
have preserved no memorabilia of their conver- 
sation, either on this or on other occasions, 
when I happened to meet them together. 
Many sougs were sung ; which I mention for 
the sake of observing, that when Burns was 
called on in his turn, he was accustomed, in- 
stead of singing, to recite one or other of his 
own shorter poems, with a tone and emphasis, 
■which, though not correct or harmonious, 
were impressive and pathetic. This he did on 
the present occasion. 

"■ From Stirling we went next morning 
through the romaotic and fertile vale of Devon 
to Harvieston, iu Clackmannanshire, then in- 
habited by Mrs Hamilton, with the younger 
part of whose family Burns had been previous- 
ly acquainted. He introduced me to the 
family, and there was formed my first acquain- 
tance with Mrs Hamilton's eldest daughter, to 
whom I have been married for nine years. 
Thus was I indebted to Burns for a connexion 
from which 1 have derived, and expect further 
to derive, much happiness. 

•'During a residence of about ten days at 

parts of tha surrounding scenery, inferior to 
none 'in Scotland, in beauty, sublimity, and 
romantic interest ; particularly Castle Camp- 
bell, the ancient seat of the family of Argyle ; 
and the famous cataract of the Devon, called 
theCauldron Linn ; and the Rumbling Bridge, 
a single broad arch, thrown by the Devil, if 
tradition is to be believed, across the river, at 
about the height of a hundred feet above its 
bed. I am surprised that none of tUese scenes 
should have called forth an exertion of Burns's 
iDU*e. But I doubt if he had much taste for 
the picturesque. I well remember, that the 
ladies at Harvieston, who accompanied us on 
this jaunt, expressed iheis disappointment at 



his not expressing in more glowing and fervid 
language, his impressions of the Cauldron Linn 
scene, certainly highly sublime, and somswhat ^ 
horrible. - 

'"• A visit to Mrs Bruce of Clackmannan, % 
a lady above ninety, the lineal descendant oi ^ 
the race which gave the Scottish throne its a 
brightest ornament, interested his feelings more ? 
powerfully. This venerable dame, with charac-> V 
teristical dignity, informed me, on my observing ' 
that I believed she was descended from the fam- 
ily of Robert Bruce, that Robert Bruce ws ' 
sprung from her family. Though almost de- ^ 
prived of speech by a paralytic affection, she 
preserved her hospitality and urbanity. Slie 
was in possession of the hero's helmet and 
two-handed sword, with which she conferred 
on Burns and myself the honour of knight- 
hood, remarking, tbat she had a better right to 
confer tha! fitle than some people. . . . 

You will of course conclude that the old lady's . 
political tenets were as Jacobitical as the 
poet's, a conformity which contributed not a 
little to the cordiality of our reception and en- 
tertainment. — She gave as her first toast after 
dinner, Aiua, Uncos, or. Away with the Stran- 
gers. — Who these strangers were you will 
readily understand. Mrs A. corrects me by 
saying it should be Hooi, or Hoolii uncos, a 
sound used by shepherds to direct their dogs to 
drive away the bbeep. 

".We returned to Edinburgh by Kinross 
(on the shore of Lochleven) and Queensferry. 
I am inclined to think Burns knew nothing of 
poor Michael Bruce, who was then alive at 
Kinross, or had died there a short while before. 
A meeting between the bards, or a visit to the 
deserted cottage and early grave of poor Bruce, 
would have beeu highly interesting. * 

"At Dunfermline we visited the ruined 
abbey, and the abbey-church now consecrated 
to Presbyterian worship. Here I mounted 
the cutti/ stool, or stool of repentance, assum- 
ing the character of a penitent for fornication ; 
while Burns from the pulpit addressed to tne 
a ludicrous reproof and exhortation, parodied 
from that which had been delivered to himself 
in Ayrshire, where he had, as he assured me, 
once been one of seven who mounted the seat of 
shame together. 

" In the church-yard two broad flag-stones 
marked the grave of Robert Bruce, for whose 
memory Burns had more than common venera- 
tion. He knelt and kissed the stone with 
sacred fervour, and heartily (suus ut mos erat) 
execrated the worse thau Gotnic neglect of the 
first of Scottish heroes, "t 



The surprise expressed by Dr Adair, in his 
excellent letter, that the romantic scenery of 
the Devon should have failed to call forth any 
exertion of the poet's muse, is not in its nature 
singular ; and the disappointment felt at hie 
not expressing in more glowing language his 
emotions on the sight of the famous cataract 
of that river, is similar to what was felt by the 
friends of Burns on other occasions of li'a 



* Bruce died some years before, 
t Extracted from a letter of Dr Adair to th« 

Editor. 



BURXS.-LrrE. 



same nature. Yet t)ie inference tlial Dr Adair 
Eeeins inclined to draw from it, that he had 
little taste for the picturesque, niig:ht be ques- 
tioned, even if it stood unconlroverted by other 
evidence. The muse of Burns was in a high 
degree capricious ; she came uncalled, and 
oftea refused to attend at his bidding. Of all 
the numerous subjects suggested to him by his 
friends and correspondents, there is scarcely 
one that he adopted. The very eipectatioa 
that a particular occasion would excite the 
energies of fancy, if communicated to Burns, 
«eemed in him, as in other poets, destructive 
of the eflect expected. Hence perhaps it may 
be explained, why the banks of the Devon and 
the Tweed form no part of-the subjects of his 

A similar train of reasoning may perhaps 
explain the want of emotion wi;h which he 
viewed the Cauldron Linn. Certainly there 
are no ati'ections of the mind more deadened 
by the influence of previous expectation, than 
those arising from the sight of natural objects, 
and more especially of objects of grandeur. 
Winule descriptions of scenes, of a sublime 
nature, should never be given to those who 
are about to view them, particularly if they 
are persons of great strength and sensibility of 
imagination. Language seldom or never con- 
veys an adequate idea of such objects, but in 
the mind of a great poet ii may excite a pic- 
tnre that far transcends them. The imagina- 
tion of Burns might form a cataract in com- 
parison with which the Cauldron Ltinn should 
seem the purling of a rill, and even the mighty 
falls of JNiagara a humble cascade. * 

Whether these suggestions may assist in 
explaining our Bard 's deticiency of impression 
on the occasion referred to, or whether it 
ought rather to be imputed to some pre-occu- 
pation, or indisposition of mind, we presume 
not to decide ; but that he was in general 
feelingly alive to the beautiful or sublime in 
scenery, may be supported by irresistible evi- 
dence. It is true, this pleasure was greatly 
heightened in his mind, as might be expected, 
when combined with moral emotions of a kind 
with whicli it happily unites. That under 
this association Burns contemplated the scen- 
ery of the Devon with the eye of a genuine 
poet, the following lines, written at this very 
period, may bear witness. 



* Tliis reasoning might be extended with 
some modifications, to objects of sight of every 
kind. To have formed before-hand a distinct 
picture in the mind, of any interesting person 
or thing, generally lessens the pleasure of the 
iirst meeting with them. Though tliis picture 
be not superior, or even equal to the reality, 
still it can never be expected to be an exact re- 
semblance ; and the disappointment felt at 
finding it something different from what was 
expected, interrupts and diminishes the emo- 
tion that would otherwise be produced. In 
Buch cases the second or third interview gives 
more pleasure than the first. See ihc Elcmaits 
of the Philosophy of iiie Human M,nd, by Mr 
ateu-art, p. 484. Such publications as The 
Guide to the Lakes, where every scene is d 
fecribed in the most minute manner, and som 
tunes with considerable exaggeration of lai 
guajj'e, are ia this poiut of view objections! )a 



On a Yoong Lady, retiding on the banks of the 
small river Devon, in Clackinannanshire, but 
Khoae iiifaid years K&re sperU in Ayrshire. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding 
Devon, 
With green spreading bushes, and flowers 
blooming fair ; 
But th« bonniest flower on the banks of the 

Was oiice a sweet bnd on the braes of the 
Ayr. 

Mild be the sun on this s'weet blushing flower, 
lu the gay rosy uiorn as it bathes in the 

And gentle the fail of the soft vernal shower. 
That steals on the eveuiug each leaf to re- 



And far be thou distant, thou reptile that 



A fairer than either adorns the green valleys 
Where Devon, aweet Devon, meandering 

The different journeys already mentioned 
did not satisfy the curiosity of Burns. About 
the beginning of September, he again set out 
from Edinburgh, on a more extended tour to 
the Highlands, in company with Mr Nicol, 
with whom he had contracted a particular 
intimacy, which lasted during the remainder 
of his lite. Mr Nicol was of Dumfries-shire, 
of a descent equally humble with our poet. 
Like him he rose by the strength of his talents, 
and fell by the strength of his passions. He 
died in the summer of 1 797. Having received 
the elements of a classical instruction at his 
parish school, Mr Nicol made a very rapid and 
singular proficiency ; and by early undertaking 
the office of an instructor himself, he acquired 
the means of entering himself at the Univer- 
sity of Edinburgh. There he was first a stu- 
dent of theology, then a student of medicine, 
aiid was afterwards employed in the assistance 
and instruction of graoua'tes in medicine, in 
those parts of their exercises in which tlie 
Lai in language is employed. In this situation 
he was the contemporary and rival of the cele- 
brated Dr Brown, whom he resembled in the 
particulars of hi-> history, as well as in the 
leading features of his character. The ofiice 
of assistant teacher in the High-school being 
vacant, it was, as usual, filled up by competi- 
tion ; and in the fai;e of some prejudices, and 
perhaps of some well-founded objections, Mr 
JVicol, by superior learning, carried it from all 
the other candidates. This office he tilled at 
the period of which we speak. 

It is to be lamented ; that an acquaintance 
with the writers of Greece and Rome does not 
always supply an original want of taste and 
correctness in manners and conduct ; and where 
it fails cf tbu etiect, it sometimes iufiames 



DUilONU CABINET LIBBXET. 



tbo aaXire pride of temp«r, whieh trteu witit 
di*4*m tiio«e «lBiieaeies id wbieii it b&s not 
le&TBMi to sKceL It was thus with the fellow- 
ttAvelier of Bonu. Foriced bj aatcr* in a 
mode) of ^eat ttrtiietb, neither kit person nor 
his Bi&uners bkd «ay tiaetare of tacte or ei»- 
g*nee; and hiB co«r»ene«s was aot compen- 
B&ted b; chat romaatio Moaibiiuy, and those 
tow«r!ag liighu of imagination, which distiQ' 
gaished tJie eoBv«r»Rtion of Bartis. in the 
blaze of whose penina all the delicien3>«» of 
hia mauuers wore abserbed and disappeared. 

Mr Nicol and our |poet travelled u» a po«t- 
abalse, which they en^a^ed for the jouraey, 
a&d pasBiiig through the heart of the Hif aiaoda, 
ftretcbed uorthwariia, about ten miles bejend 
luveraess. Tber* thej bent their course east- 
ward, across th« island, and returned b; th« 
«hore of the German Sea to Edisburg^h. in 
trie course of this tour, some pariiculars of 
mldc^ wiU be found in a letter of oar 
bar<i, the; visited a number of remarkable 
sceass, and the injaginat:-jn of Burns was 
constautlj excited by the wild and «cblime 
scenery through which be passed- Of ibis, 
leverai proofs may be found in the poems for- 
merly printed * Of the history of one of the»« 
poems, TSe humble Petition of Bi-uar Water, 
aiid of the bard'i Tisit to Athok Hour.e, some 
particulars will be found in Letters IS'o. 33. aitd 
No. S4 : and, bv the favour of Mr >V alter of 
Pertli, tiiea reiidlng in the family of the Duke 
of Alhole, we are enabled to give die following 
additional account. 

"On reaching Blair, he sent me notice of 
bis arrival (a-i I had been preTiously acquainted 
with Lim), and I hastened to meet him at the 
inn. The Uuke, to whom he brought a letter 
ol introduction, was from home j but the 
]>iiches9, being informed of bis arrival, gave 
him an invitatii-n to sup and sleep at A thole 
Uouse. He accepted the iuvilation ; but, at 
the hoar of supper was at some distance, bes- 
ted I would iu the interval be his guide through 
the grounds. It was already growing dark; 
yet the suttened, though faint and uncertain, 
view of their beauties, which the moonlight 
atr'orded us, seemed exactly suited to the stute 
ot his feelings at the time. I had often, like 
oliiers, experienced the pleasures which arise 
from the subHuie or elegant laiidscape, but I 
never saw those feelings so intense as in Burns. 
\Vtien we reached a rustic but on the river 
1'iit. where it is overhung by a woody preci- 
pic(», from which there is a noble wstpr-tail. 
Be threw himself on the heatby seai, and ^are 
himself up to a tender, abstracted, and volup- 
tiioiis enthusiasm of imairinatioa. I cannot 
help thinking it might have beea feere that ho 
conceived the idea of the fclioKioj lines, 
which lie afterwards intnjdaced ict* liis poem 
on Bruar Water, when only fancying such a 
cum bi nation ot objects as w«re now prsseut to 



n with a 



• See " Lines on 
Loch Turit. a wild 
Ocht«rtfre. " "Li 
over the chimney p: 
jiiore, '1 ayutouth. " 

pencil standing by tbe Fall of Fyres, 
ii3cbneg«. " 



hilii of 
Peijoil 

Lines written with a 



Or hj the reaper's nightly ^tm, 
Alild chequering through the tree*. 

Rave to my darkly-dashing stream. 
Hoarse sweiling on the breeze. 

"It WM with aiaeh difficulty I prevailed oa 
him to <]ttit this apot, and to be introduced in 
proper time w lupper. 

"My curio<it^ waa great to see bow be 
wonld conduct kiiaself in company so difierent 
frota what be had been accsstomed ta.f His 
maimer was ccembarrassed, plain, and firm. 
He appeared t^ have complete reliance on big 
own native good sense for directing his beha- 
vioar. He seemed at once to perceive and to 
appreciate what wr8 due to the company and 
to himself, and never to for?et ft f rop«r respect 
for the separate species of dignity belonging to 
each- He did aot arrt«:ate conversation, but, 
when led into it, hespoxa witii ease, propriety, 
and manliness. He tried to exert his abilities, 
because he knew it was ability alone gave him 
a title to be there. The Duke's tiue young 
family attracted much of his admiration ; he 
drank their healths as honest tnen and boKide 
lasfes, an idea which was much applauded by 
the company, and with which he has very feli- 
citously closed hii poem. 

" Next day I took a ride with him through 
eome of the most romantic parts of that neieh- 
bourbood, and was highly gratiiied by his con- 
versation. As a specimen of his happiness ef 
conception and strength of expression, I will 
mention a remark which he made on his fellow- 
traveller, who was walking at the time a few 
paces before us. He was a man of a robust 
but clumsy pertion ; and while Burns was ex- 
pressing to me the value he entertained for him, 
on account of his vigorous talents, slthongh 
they were clouded at times by coarseness of 
manners ; • in short, ' be added, • his mind 
is like his body ; be ha* a eoolcuuded strong 
in-kneed sort of a souL ' 

" Wuch attention was paid t* Boms both 
before and after the Duke's return, of which bs 
was perfectly sensible, wiiaout being vain ; 
and at his departure I recommended to him, as 
the most appropriate return he could make, t« 
write some deBcriptive verses on any of ths 
scenes with which he had been so moch de- 
lighted. After leaving Blair, he, by the 
Duke's advice, visited the Fulls of Brxtar, and 
in a few days i received a letter from Inverness, 
with the verses inclosed. ' 'X 

It appears that the impression made by onr 
poet on the noble family of Alhole was in » 
high degree favourable ; it is certain he was 
charmed with the reception he received front 
them, and he oflea aieationed the two days he 
spent at Athole-bouse as among the happiest of 
bis life. He was warmly invited to prolong 
bis stay, bfit sacriUced his inclinations to bis 
engagement with Mr Nicol ; which is the more 
to be regretted, as hs wonid otherwise have 



I In tfca preceding winter. Burns had be*a 
in sompany of the highest rank in E^iiabni^n ; 
but thU de»CTiptioa of his manners is perfectly 
apniicabla to his hr^t appearance in such 

^ Extract of a letter from Mr Walker to Mr 
! Cunningham, dated Perth. HUk October. 



BUKNS LIFE. 



h^D iatrodnced to Mr Dnndas (then dai]; ex- 
pected on a visit to the Duke J, a circumstance 
that might have had a favourable influence on 
Burns' future fortunes. At Athole bouse, be 
met, for the first time, Mr Graham of Piatry, 
to whom he was afterwards indebted foi his 
office in the £xcis*. 

> The letters and poems which he addressed 
to Mr Graham, bear testimony of his eensibll- 
ity, and justify the tupposition, that he would 
not have been deticient in gratitude had he 
been elerated to a situation better suited to Lis 
disposition and to his talents. 

A few days after leaving Blair of Athole, 
our poet and his fellow-traveller arrived at 
Fochabers. In the course of the precedinp 
winter Burns had been introduced to the 
Duchess of Gordon at Edinburgh, and jire- 
sumiu; on thi» actjuaintance, he proceeded to 
Gordon Castltt. leaving Mr Nicol at the inn in 
the Tillage. At the castle our poet was re- 
ceived with the utmost hospitality and kind- 
ness, and the family being about to sit down 
to dinner, be was iarited to take his place at 
table as a matter of course. This invitation 
be accepted, and after lirinking a few glasses 
of wine, b« rose up and proposed to withdraw. 
On being pressed to stay, he mentioned, for 
thefir«t time, his engagement with his fellow- 
traveller ; and his noble host ottering to send 
a servant to conduct Mr Nicol to the castle, 
Burns insisted on undertaking that office him . 
self. He was, however, accompanied by a 
gentleman, a particular acquaintance of the 
Duke, by whom the invitation was delivered 
iu all the forms of politeness. The invitation 
came too late ; the pride of Nicol was iullamed 
to a high degree of passion, by the neglect 
which he had already suifered He had ordered 
the horses U> be put to the carriage, being de- 
termined to proc«>«>d on his journey alone : and 
they found him parading the streets of Focha- 
bers, before the door of the inn, venting his 
anger on the postilion, for the slowiieM with 
which he obeyed bis commands. As no ex- 
planation nor entreaty could change the pur- 
pose of his fellow-traveller, our pot;t was 
reduced to the necessity of separating frcn 
him entirely, or of instantly procet-ding with 
kim on their journey. He chose the last of 
lAese alternatives : and seating himself beside 
Nicol in the post-chaise, with mortilJcation 
and regret, he turned his back on Gordon 
Castle, where he had promised himself some 
happy days. Sensible, however, of the great 
kindness of the noble family, he made the best 
return in his power, by the following poem.* 



Streams that ^lide in orient plains 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 
Glowing here on golden sands. 
There commix 'd with foulest stains 
From tyranny's emporjtled bands: 
These, their richly gleaming wares, 
I leave to tyrants and their «ia»es ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 
The banks bj Castle- Gordon. 



* This iaforuiation la ertract«wl from « letter 
of Or Gonper of Fochabers te tbe iwiiwr. 



II. 



Spicy forests ever gay. 
Shading from the burning ray 
Hapless wretches sold to toil. 
Or the ruthless native's way. 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoils 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave. 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms, by Castle- Gordon. 

; iiL 

Wildly here, without control. 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 
In that sober pensive mood. 
Dearest to the feeling soul. 
She plants the forest, pours the flood. 
Life s poor day I'll musing rave. 
And find at night a sheltering cave. 
Where waters How and wild woods wave 
By bonnie Castle-Gordon. | 

Burns remained at Edinburgh during the 
greater part of the winter, 1*87-8, and again 
entered into the society and dissipation of that 
metropolis. It appears that, on the 31st day 
of December, he atended a meeting to cele- 
brate the birth-day of the lineal descendant of 
the Scottish race of kings, the late unfortunate 
Prince Charles Edward. Whatever might 
have been the wish or purpose of the original 
institutors of this annual meeting, there is no 
reason to suppose that the gentlemen of which 
it was at this time composed, were not per- 
fectly loyal to the king on the throne. It is 
not to be conceived that they entertained any 
hope of, any wish for, the restoration of the 
House of Stuart ; but, over their sparkling 
w'ne, they indulged the generous feelin|^s 
which the recollection of fallen greatness is 
calculated to inspire ; and commemorated the 
heroic valour which strove to sustain it in vrain 

valour worthy of a nobler cause and a hap- 

oier fortune. On this occasion our baru took 
upon himself the office of poet-laureate, ana 
produced an ode, which, though deticient 113 
the complicated rhythm and polished versifica- 
tion that such compositions require, might, on 
a fair corapetiliou, where energy of feelings 
and of expression were alone iu question, have 
won the butt of Malmsey from th« real laureate 
of (hat day. 

The following extracts may serve as a speoi- 



False flatterer, Hope, away ! 
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore. 

We solemnize this sorrowing natal day 
To prove our loyal truth— we can no more; 

And, owning Heaven's mysterious sway 
Submissive, low, adore. 

XL 

Ye honour 'd miehty dead I 
Who nobly perish 'din the glorious cause. 
Your king, your country, and her laws ! 

f Tlif:se verses our po«t loraposed IP be sunj 
to Mma^, a Highland air of which he was ex 
urenisly fond. 



a 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



From great Dunde«, ■«ho smiling vic- 

Aiid fell a martyr in her arms, 
(What breast of northern ice but warms ?) 
To bold Balmerino's undyinf: name. 
Whose soul, of tire, lighted at Heaven's high 

l)esei\ea the proudest wreath departed heroes 
claim. * 

III. 

Not unrevenged your fate shall be ; 

It only lags, the fatal hour ; 
Hoar blood shMll with incessant cry 

Awake at last th' unsparing power. 
As from the clitf, with Uiundenng course. 

The snowy ruin smokes along. 
With doubling speed and gathering force, 
Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the 

So vengeance .... 



of respect and s\ mpathy wiili which 
be traced out tije grave of his predecessor 
Fergussoa, over whose ashes, in the Canongate 
ehurch-yard, he obtained leave to erect an 
bumble monument, which will be viewed by 
reflecting minds with no common interest, and 
which will awake, in the bosom of kindred 
genius, many a high emotion. Neither should 
we pass over the continued friendship he ex- 
perienced from a poet then living, the amiable 
and accomplished Blacklock. — To his encour- 
aging advice it was owing (as has already ap- 
peared) that Burns, instead of emigrating to the 
West Indies, repaired to Edinburgh. He re- 
ceived him ti.ere with all the ardour of aflec- 
tionate admiration ; he eagerly introduced him 
to the respectable circle of bis friends ; be 
consulted bis interest ; he blazoned bis fame ; 
he lavished upon him all the kindness of a 
generous and feeling heart, into which nothing 
selbsh or envious ever found admittance. 
Among the friends whom he introduced to 
Burns was Mr Ramsay of Ochtertyre, to 
whom our poet paid a visit in the autumn 
of 1787, at bis delightful retirement in the 
neighbourhood of Stirling, and on the banks of 
the Teith. Of this visit we have the following 
particulars : 

•• I have been in the company of many men 
>f genius," says Mr Ramsay, '-some of them 
poets, but never witnessed such flashes of in- 
telleciual brightness as from him, the impulse 
of the moment, sparks of celestial tire ! I 
never was more delighted, therefore, than with 
his company for two days, tete-a-tete. In a 
mixed company 1 should have made little of 
him ; for, in the gamester's phrase, he did not 



* In the first part of this ode there is some 
beautiful imagery, wliich the poet afterwards 
interwove in a happier manner, in the Cheva- 
eierh , Lament. But if there were no other 
reasons for omitting to print the entire potni, 
the want of originality would be sufficient. A 
considerable part of it is a kind of rant, for 
which, indeed, precedent may be cited in 
various other odes, but with which it is impos- 
s..,!e to go along. 



always know when to play oflF and when t* 
play on. . . I not only proposed (o him the 
writing of a play similar to the Gentle Shep- 
herd, qualem decet esse sororsm, but Scottish 
Georgics, a subject which Thomson has by na 
means exhausted in his Seasons. What beau- 
tiful landscapes of rural life and manners might 
not have been expected from a pencil so faith- 
ful and forcible as his, which could have ex- 
hibited scenes as familiar and interesting as 
those in the Gentle Shepherd, which ever* 
one, who knows our swaius in the uuadulterate 
stale, instantly recognises as true to uature. 
But to have executed either of these plans, 
steadiness and abstraction from company were 
wanting, not talents. When I asked him 
whether the Eainbnrgh Literati bad mended 
his poems by their criticisms, • Sir, ' said he, 
' these genileiuen remind me of some spinster* 
in my country, who spin their thread so fine 
that it is neither tit for weft nor woof. ' He 
said he had not changed a word except one, to 
please Dr Blair."* 

Having settled with his publisher, Mr Creech, 
in February, 17S8, Burns found himself mas- 
ter of nearly live hundred pounds, after dis- 
charging all his expenses. Two hundred 
pounds he immediately advanced to his broiher 
Gilbert, who had taken upon himself the 
support of their aged mother, and was strug- 
gling with "many difficulties in the farm of 
Mossgiel. With the remainder of this sum, 
and some further eventual profits from his 
poems, he determined on settling himself for 
life in the occupation of agriculture, and took 
from Mr Miller of Dalswinton, the farm of 
Ellisland, on the banks of the river Nith, six 
miles above Dumfries, on which he entered 
at Whitsunday, 1788. Having been previous, 
ly recommended to the Board of Excise, his 
name had been put on the list of candidates for 
the humble office of a ganger or exciseman ; 
and he immediaiely applied to acquirir.g the in- 
formation necessary for tilling that office, when 
the honourable Board might judge it pioper to 

He expected to be called into service ;n the 
district in which his farm was situated, and 
vainly hoped to unite with success the labours 
of the farmer with the duties of the exciseman. 



i had i 



inged 



his plans for futurity, his generous heart 
turned to the object of his most ardent attach- 
ment, and listening to no cunsiderations but 
those of honour and afl'ectiou, he joined with 
her in a puLlic declaration of marriage, thus 
legalizing their union, and rendering it perma- 
nent for life. 

Before Burns was known in Edinburgh, a 
specimen of his poetrv had recoiiiinendea him 
to Mr Miller (.f Dalswinton. Understanding 
tUat he intended to resume the life of a farmer, 
iMr Miller had invited him in the spring of 
17S7, to view his estate in Nithsdale, offering 
him at the same time the choice of any of his 



* Extract of a letter from Mr Ramsai/ to tha 
Editor. "'ihis inco'irigibility of Bu'piis ex- 
tended, however, only to his poems printed be. 
fore he arrived in Edinburjch ; for, in regard to 
his unpublished poems, he was amenable to 
criticism, of which many proofs may be given.' 
See some remarks on tiiis sufj^cl, inAppendiX, 



JTuUXSi-LrFE, 



farms out <n lease, at sucn a rent as Burns and 
hii) friends might jadge proper. It was not in 
the nature of Burns to take an undue advan- 
tage of the liberality of Mr Miller. He pro- 
ceeded in this business, however, with more 
than usual deliberation. Having made choice 
of the farm of Ellisland, he euiplojed two of 
his friends, skilled in the value cf land, to ex- 
amine it, and, with their approbation, offered 
a rent to Mr Miller, which was immediately ac- 
cepted. It was not convenient for Mrs Burns 
to remove immediately from Ayrshire, and our 
poet therefore took up his residence alone at 
Ellisland, to prepare for the reception of his 
wife and children, who joined him towards the 
end of the year. 

The situation in which Burns now found 
himself was calculated to awaken reflection. 
The different steps he had of late taken were 
in their nature highly important, and might be 
said to have, in some measure, fixed his destiny. 
He had become a husband and a father ; he 
had engaged in the management cf a consi- 
derable farm, a difficult and laborious under- 
taking ; in his success the happiness of his 
family was involved ; it was time, therefore, 
to abandon the gayety and dissipation of which 
he had been too much enamoured ; to ponder 
seriously on the past, and to form virtuous re- 
solutions respecting the future. That such 
was actually the state of his mind, the follow, 
ing extract from his cummoii-place book may 
bear witness: — 

" EllisJand, Sunday, lith Jiine, 1788. 
" This is now the third day that I have been 
in this country. * Lord, what is man I' What 
a bustling little bundle of passions, appetites, 
ideas, and fancies ! and what a capricious kind 
of existence he has here ! . . There is 
indeed an elsewhere, where, as Thomson says, 
virtue sole survives. 

'* Tell us, ye dead : 
"Will none of you in pity disclose the secret. 
What 'tis jou are, and we must shortly be ? 

A little time 
Will make us wise as you are, and as close. " 

«« I am such a coward in life, so tired of 
the service, that I would almost at any time, 
with Milton's Adam, 'gladly lay me in my 
mother's lap, and be at peace. ' 

" But a wife and children bind me to strug- 
gle with the stream, till some sudden squall 
ihall overset the silly vessel, or in the listless 
return of years, its own craziness reduce it to 
a wreck. Farewell now to those giddy follies, 
those varnished vices, which, though half- 
sanctified by the bewitching levity of wit, and 
humour, are at best but thriftless idling with 
the precious current of existence ; nay. often 
poisoning the whole, that, like the plains of 
Jericho, the water is riaughi and the growid 
barren, and nothing short of a supernaturally- 
gilted Elisha can ever after heal the evils. 

" Wedlock, the circumstance that buckles 
me hardest to care, if virtue and religion were 
to be any thing with me but names, was what 
in a few seasons I must have resolved on ; in 
niy present situation it was absolutely neces- 
sary. Humanity, generosity, honest pride of 
cliaracter, justice. lO my own happiness for 
of tar life, so far *s it could depend (which 



sorely will a great deal) on internal peace ; \CA 
thtse joined their warmest suiirages, their mos- 
powerful solicitations, with a rooted attach- 
ment, to urge the step I have talcen. Nor 
have I any reason on her part to repent it. — 
I can fancy how, but have never seen where, 
I could have made a better choice. Come, 
then, let me act up to my favourite motto 
that glorious passage in Young — 



That colum 

Under the impulse of these reflectiong. 
Burns immediately engaged in rebuilding the 
dwelling-house on his farm, which, in the 
stale he found it, was inadequate to the ac- 
commodation of his family. On this occasion, 
he himself resumed at times the occupation 
of a labourer, and found neither his strength nor 
his skill impaired. — Pleased with surveying the 
grounds he was about to cultivate, and with 
the rearing of a building that should give shelter 
to his wife and children, and, as he fondly 
hoped, to his own gTey hairs, sentiments of 
independence buoyed up his mind, pictures of 
domestic content and peace rose on his ima- 
gination ; and a few days passed away, as he 
himself informs us, the most tranquil, if not 
the happiest, which he had ever experienced.* 

It is to be lamented that at this critical 
period of his life, our poet was without the 
society of his wife and children. A great 
ehanpe had taken place in his situation ; his 
oid habits were broken; and the new circum- 
stances in which he was placed were calculated 
to give a new direction to his thoughts and 
conduct, f But his application to the cares 
and labours of his farm was interrupted by 
several visits to his family in Ayrshire; and 
as the distance was too great for a single day 's 



^ Animated sentiments of any kind, almost 
always ga^e rise in our poet to some produc- 
tion of his muse. His sentiments on this occa- 
sion were in part expressed by the following 
vigorous and characteristic, though not very 
delicate verses : they ar 
ballad. 



Ihae 



wifeo 



I'll partake wi' nae-body ; 
I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
I'll gie cuckold to nae-body. 

I hae a penuy to spend. 
There— thanks to nae-body ; 

I hae naething to lend, 
111 borrow frae nae-body. 

I am nae-body 's lord, 

1 "11 be slave to nae-body ; 

I hae a guid braid sword, 
I '11 tak dunts frae nae-body. 

I'll be merry and free, 

rii be sad for nae-body 
If nae-body care for me, - . 

I'll care for nae-body. 

+ Mrs Burns was about to be confined in 
child-bed, and the house at Ellisland was re 
Icilding. 



♦« 



DIAVOXD CABINET LIBRAKV. 



journey, he generally spent a nig-ht at an inn 
on the rofcd. Oa tnch occasion" fie sometmves 
fell into company, and torgot the resoiutioa* 
he had formed. In a littie while temptatioa 
•Mailed him nearer boine. 

Hi« taas* aatnrallj drew sp«* him the at- 
tention of his neiehbcnrs, and ae »ooa fcT-ased 
a general aeqnaintanee ia the distriet m which 
he liTed. The public »oie« had now pro- 
ooiinced en the subject cf his talents; th« re- 
eepiion he had met with ia Edinburgh had 
giren him the currency -which fayhion bestows ; 
he had surmounteJ the prejudices arising from 
his humble birth, and he was received at the 
table of the geutlemen of Nithsdaie w;lh wel- 
eome, with siadaess, and eren with respect. 
Their social parties too often seduced him from 
his rustic labour* and his rustic fare, oT«rthrew 
the unsteady fabric of his resolutions, »nd in- 
flamed these propensities which temperance 
mi^ht hare weakened, and prudence ultimately 
suppressed. * it was not Ions:, therefore, be- 
fore Burns besran to riew his farm with Cislika 
and despondence, if not with disgust. 

Unfortunately he had for sereraj year* looked 
V) an office in the Excise as a certain means of 
/iTelihood, should his other expectations fail. 
As has already been mentioned, he hid been 
recommended to the Board of Excise, and had 
received the instruction necessary for such a 
Eiluation. He now applied to b« employed; 
and, by the interest of Xii Graham of Fintra, 
was appointed to be exciseman, or, as it is 
Tulgarly called, gauger, of the district in which 
he "liTed. His farm was, after this, in a 
great measure abandoned lo servants, while he 
betook himself to the duties of his new appoint- 
ment. 

He might indeed still be seen in the sprinjr, 
directing his plough, a lahour in which he ex- 
celled ; or with a whits sheet, containing his 
seed-corn, slung across his shoulders, striding 
with measured steps along his tinned up fur- 
rows, and scattering the grain in the earth, 
but his farm co longer occupied the principal 
part of bis care or his thoughis. It was not at 
Ellisland that he wag novr in general to bs 
found. Mounted on horseback, this high- 
minded poet was pursuing the defaulters of the 
revenue, among the hills and Tales of Niths- 
daie, tis roving eye wandering otct the charms 
of nature, and tauiterMg his tcat/uxrd fancies 
as he moved along. 

•' I had an adventHrt with him in the year 
1790," »ayt ilr Ramsay of Ochtertyrej in a 



* The poem of Tke Wkistle celebrate* a 
Bacchanalian contest among three gentlemen 
of Nithsdaie, where Burns appear* a* umpire. 
Mr Riddel died before our bard, and some 
elegiac Terses to his memory will be found in 
this Toluma. From hiaj, and from all the 
members of bis family. Burns received not 
kinduiss only but friendship ; and the society 
he mrt in general at Friar'* Cars* was calcu- 
latea to improve bis habits a« well a* hi* man- 
oers. Air Ferguson of Craigdarroch, so well 
known for bis eloquence and social talents, 
died sooo after our poet. Sir Robert Lawrie, 
tiie third person ia th« ^rama, JtirriTe*, and has 
Sinct L-eec nigaged in contests of a bloodier 
nature. Lonjr may he live to fight tbs battle* 



letter to tbe editor, " when pasaiis^ 'hrwi^ 
Dumfries-shire, on a tour to tha soath, wi?u 
IJr Stuart of Losb Seeing hio! pass quickly 
near Cloiicbura, 1 said tosy eomp»oion, * tna( 
is Burn*. ' On coming to the iuo. (he bottler 
told ns he woold be back in a hw hours to 
^rant permit* } that where he met with any 
thing leiioble he wa« no better than any other 
ganger, in every thing else, he was perfectly a 
l^entleman. After leaving a note to be delivered 
to him on his return, I proceeded to hi* house, 
being curious to see his Jean, &c. I was much 
pleased with his uxor Sabir.a qualis, and the 
poet's modest mansion, so unlike the habitation 
of ordinary rustics. In the evening he sud- 
denly bounced in upon ns, and said, as he 
entered, 1 come, to use the words of Shak- 
speare, sUiced in hasle. In fact, he had ridden 
incredibly tast after receiving my note. We 
fell into conversation directly, and soon got 
into the mare ma^iuvi of poetry. He told me 
that he had now gotten a story for a drama, 
which he was to call Rob ilacquechan's Elshon, 
from a popular story of Robert Bruce being 
deteated on the water of Caern, when the heel 
of his boot having loosened in his flight, he 
applied to Robert Ma^quechan to fix it ; who, 
to make sure, ran his awl nine inches np the 
king's heeL We were now going on at a great 

rate, when Mr S popped in his head; 

which put a stop to our discourse, which had 
become very interesting. Yet in a littl« while 
it was resumed, and such was the force and 
versatility of the bard's genius, that he made 

the tears run down Mr S 's cheeks, 

albeit unused to the poetic strain 

From that time we met no more, and I waj 
grieved at the reports of him afterward*. 
Poor Burns ! we shall hardly ever see his like 
again. He was, in truth, a sort of comet in 
literature, irregular in its motions, which did 
not do good prooortioned to the blaze of light 
it displayed. " 

In the summer of 1791, two English gentle- 
men, who had before met with him m Edin. 
fanrgh, made a visit to him at Ellisland. On 
calling at the house, they were informed that 
he hud walked out on the banks of the river ; 
and dismounting from their horses, they pro- 
ceeded in search of him. Oa a rock that pro- 
jected into the stream, they saw a man employ- 

I ed in angling, of a singular appearance. He 
had a cap made of a fox's skin on his head, a 
loose great-coat fixed round him by a belt, 

I from which depended an enormous Highland 
broad-sword. It was Burns. He received 
them with great cordiality, and asked them to 
share his humble dinner— an invitation which 
they accepted. On the table they found boiled 
beef, with vegetables and barley-broth, after 
the manner of Scotland, of which they partook 
heartily. Af^er dinner, the bard told them 
ingenuously that he had no wine to ofi'er 
them, nothing better than Highland whisky, 

1 a bottle of which Mr* Barn* set on the board. 

'■ He produced at the same tima hi* punch- 
bowl, made of Inverary majble, and, mixing 
the spirits with water and sugar, filled their 
glasses, and invited them to. drink.* The 

I — . . 

j * "niis bowl was made of the stone of which 
Inverary hoo&e is biuit, the mansion of the 

! OoaUjr iif Argjle. 



UURN3.— LLFE. 



4T 



travellers wers in haste, and besides, the 
iiavuur cif tb* whiskj to their tmiWiroH pa- 
lates was scarcely solerabie ; but the gen. 
erouB poet od'ered them his best, and hia 
artieat UuspitSLlitv thej fouad it imponiblo to 
re«)Su Burn* was in his happiest mood, and 
the char?us oJ" Lin conversation were altogether 
fadcii:ati!i^. He ranged over a great yarietj 
of topics, illuminating whatever he touched. 
He related th« t&ies of his infancy and of ais 
youth ; he recuea fsome of the gayest and som« 
of the teuderest of his poema ; in the ^viidest of 
his straias of mirth, be threw in touches of 
melancholy, and spread arcuud him the elec- 
tric smotioas of his powerful miad. The high- 
land whi&ky improved in itfi flavour ; the marble 
bowl ?tas agiiin i^ud a^ain emptied and replen- 
ished ; the guests of our poet forgot the night 
of time, and the dictates of prudence : at the 
hour of midnight they lost their way in return- 
ing to Dumfries, and could scarcely distiu- 
{fUisU it whea assisted bj the morning 'a 
iawn.* 

Besides bis duties in the Excise and his so- 
eial pleasures, «Hher circumstances interfered 
with the attention of Burns to his farm. He 
engaged in the formation of a society for pur- 
chasing and circulating books among the far- 
mers of his neighbourhood, of which he un- 
dertook the management ; and he occupied 
himself occasionally in composing sougs for 
the musical work of Mr Johnson, then in the 
course of publication. These engageraentb, 
useful and honourable in themselves, contri- 
buted, no doubt, to the abstraction of his 
thoughts from the business of agriculture. _ 

The consequences may be easily imjigined, 
Notwithsiauiliag the uniform prudence and 
good management of iNIrs Burns, and though 
his rent was moderate and reasonable, our 
poet found it convenient, if not necessary, to 
resign his farm to Mr Miller ; after having oc- 
cupied it three years and a half. His office in 
the Excise had originally produced about fifty 
pounds per annum. Having acquitted him- 
self to the satisfaction of the Board, he had 
been appointed to a new district, the emolu- 
ments of which rose to about seventy pounds 
per annum. Hoping to support himself and 
his family on this humble income till promo- 
tion should reach him, he disposed of his stock 
and of his crop on EUisland by public auction, 
and removed to a small house which he had tak- 
•n in Dumfries, about the end rf the year 1791. 

Hitherto Burns, though addicted to excess in 
social parties, had abstained from the habit- 
nal use of strong liquors, and his constitution 
had not suft'ered any permanent injury &om 
the irregularities of his conduct. In Diunfries, 
temptations to the sin thai so eusilj/ betet him, 
continually presented themselves ; and his ir- 
regularities grew by degrees into habits. These 
temptations unhappily ocourred during his en- 
gagements in the business of his office, as well 
as during his hours of relaxatioD ; and though 
he elearly foresaw the consequence of jieiding 
to them, his appetitea and sensations, which 
could not pervert the dictates of his judgment, 
finally triumphed o^tir all the powers of his 
will. Yet this victory was no: obtaisied with- 



a from the information of one of the 



out many obstinate struggles, aad at timas 
teinperdnce and virtue seemed to have obtcined 
the mastery. Besides his engagements in tbo 
HjLciBe, and the society into which they led, 
maay circumstances contributed to the melan- 
choiy fate of Burns. His great celebrity m&d* 
him an object of interest acd curiosity to stran- 
gers, and few persons of cultivated muids pas- 
sed thr'-ugb Dumfries without attempting to 
see our poet, and to enjoy the pleasure of his 
ccnversatioo. As he could not receive them 
under his own humble roof, these interviews 
passed a: the inns of the town, and often ter- 
minated in those excesses which Btu-ns soma, 
times provoked, and was seldom able to resist. 
And among the inhabitants of Dismfriee and 
its vicinity, there were sever wanting persons 
to share his social pleasures j to lead or accom- 
pany him to the tavern; to partake in the 
wildest sallies of his wit ; to witness the 
strength and degradation of his genius. 

Stiii, however, he cultivated the society of 
persons of taste and respectability, and in their 
company could impose on himself the restraints 
of temperance and decorum. Nor was his 
muse dormant. In the four years which he 
lived in Dumfries, he produced many of his 
beautiful lyrics, though it does not app'ear that 
he attempted any poem of considerable length. 
During this time, he made several excursions 
into the neighbouring country, of one of w hich 
through Galloway, an account is preserved in 
a letter of Mr Syme, written soon after; 
which, as it gives an animated picture of hiia 
by a correct and maiiterly hand, we (hall pre- 
sent to the reader, 

*• I got Burns a grey highland shelty to ride 
on. We dined the first day, 27th July, 1793, 
at Glendenwynes of Parton ; a beautiful situa- 
tion on the banks of the Dee. In the evening 
we walked out, and ascended a gentle eminence, 
from which we had as hue a view of Alpine 
scenery as can well be imagined. A delightful 
soft evening showed all its wUder as well as 
its grander graces. Immediately opposite, 
and within a mile of us, we saw Airds, a 
charming romantic place, where dwelt Low, 
the author of Mary weep no more for me.\ 
This was classical ground for Burns. He 
viewed "the highest hill which rises o'er the 
source of Dee;" and would have staid till 
"the passing spirit" had appeared, had we 
not resolved to reach Kenmore that night. "VVe 
arrived as Mr and Mrs Gordon were sitting 
down to supper. 

" Here is a genuine baron's seat- The cas 
tie, an old building, stands on a large natural ; 
moat. In front, the river Ren winds for se- "^ 
veral miies through the moat fertile andbeauti^ 
ful hoLmX till it expands into a lake twelve 



f A beactifol and well-known ballad, which 
begins thus t 

The moon had climb 'd the highest hill 4 

>Vhich rises o'er the source of Dee, 
And, from the eastern summit, shed 
its silver light oa tower aad tree. 
^ The level low groond on the banks of a 
river or stream. This word shetdd be adopted 
from the Scottish, as, indeed, ought several 
others of the same nature. That diale^ ia 
singularly copious and exact in the denomiaar- 
tiouk of natural objects. 



48 



DIA.M'u-.NU CABINET LIBRARY. 



miles long, the banks of which, o;; the south, 
present a tiue and soft landscaj ' cf green 
KiioUs, natural wood, aadhere and there a jcrey 
rock- On the north, the aspect is great, wild, 
and I may say, tremendous. In short, I caa 
scarcely conceive a scene more terribly roman- 
tic than the castle of Kenmore. Burns thinks 
60 highly of it, that he meditates a description 
of it la poetry. Indeed, I believe he has begun 
the work. We spent three days with Mr 
Gordon, whose polished hospitality is of an 
original and endearing kind. Mrs Gordon's 
lap-dog, Ec/io, was dead. She would have an 
epitaph for him. Several had been made. 
Burns was asked for one. This was setting 
Hercules to bis distaff. He disliked the !,ul>- 
ject ; but, to piease the lady, he wouid U-y. 
Here is wliat he proauced : 

In "wood and wild, ye warbling throng. 

Your heavy loss deplore ; 
Now half extinct jour powers of song, 

Ye jarring screeching things around, 

Scream your discordant joys ; 
Auw tialf your din of tunele^^ suaud 

With Echo silent lies. 

'• We left Kenmore, and went to Gatehouse. 
I took him the moor road, where savage and 
desolate regions extended wide around. The 
sky was sympathetic with the wretchedness of 
the sod ; it became lowering and dark. The 
hollow winds sighed, the lightnings gleamed, 
the thunder rolled. The poet eLJj\ed the 
awful scene — he spoke not a word, but seemed 
wrapt in meditation. In a little while the rain 
began to fail; it poured in floods upon us. 
For three hours did the wild elements rumble 
their OeUu-fuU upon our defenceless heads. 
Oh, oh ! hwasfoul. We got utterly wtt ; and 
to revenge ourselves, Burns insisted at Gate- 
house on our getting utterly diuak. 

♦•From Gaiehcuse, we went nest day to 
Kirkcudbrght, through a fine country. But 
here 1 must tell you that Burns had got a pair of 
jemmy boots tor the journey, which had beeo 
thoroughly wet, and whicii had been dried in 
such a manner that it was i)Ot possible to get 
them on again. — The brawny poet tried force, 
and tore them to shreds. A whifling vexation 
of this sort is more trying to the temper ttian a 
serious calamity. We were going to Saint 
Mary's Isle, the seat of the Earl of Selkirk, and 
the forlorn Burns was discomfited at the ihuught 
of bis ruined boots. A sick stomach, and a 
heart-ache, lent their aid, and the man of verse 
was quite cccable. 1 attempted to reason with 
him. Mercy on us, how he did fume and rage • 
Nothing could re.nstate him in temper. I 
tried various espedieuis, and at last hit on one 
ibat succeeded. I showed him the house of 

• • • •, across (he bay of Wiglon. Against 

• • • •, with whom he was offended, he 
expectorated his spieeu, and regained a most 
agreeable temper. He was in a most epigram- 
matic humour indeed ! He afterwards fell on 
humbler game. There is one • • • whom 
he does not love. He had a passing blow at him. 

Wheu , deceased, to the devil went 

'Twae nothing would serve bitu Lui baian's 



Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, that ci 



" Well, I am to bring yon to Kirkcudbright 
along with our poet, without boots. I carried 
the torn ruins across my saddle in spite of his 
fulminations, and in contempt of appearances ; 
and what is more. Lord Selkirk carried them 
in his coach to Dumfries. He insisted they 
were worth mending. 

'• We reached Kirkcudbright about one 
'clock. I had promised that we should dine 



with one of the first t 
Dalzeil. But Burns vi 
perous humoiu-, and s 



1 our c 



Id and obstre- 
would not dine 
«here he should be under the smallest restraint. 
We prevailed, therefore, on Mr Dalzeil to 
dine with us in the inn, and had a very agree- 
able party, in the evening we set out for St 
Maiy's Isle. Robert haa not absolutely re- 
gained the milkiness of good temper, and it 
occurred once or tvrice to him, as he rode along, 
that St Mary's Isle was the seat of a Lord ; 
yet that Lord was not an aristocrate, at least 
in his sense of the word. We arrived about 
eight o'clock, as the family were at tea and 
coffee. St Mary's Isle is one of the most de- 
lightful places that can, in my opinion.be form- 
ed by the assemblrge of every soft but not 
tame object which constitutes natural and cul- 
tivated Deauty. But not to dwell on its exter- 
nal graces, let roe tell >ou that we found all 
the laaies of the family (all beautiful,) at home, 
and some strangers ; and among others, who 
but Urbani! 'Ihe Italian sung us many Scot- 
tish songs, accompanied with instrumenial 
music. The two young ladies of Selkirk sung 
also. We had the song of Lord Gregory, 
which I asked for, to have an opporiunity of 
calling on Burns to recite his batlad to that 
tune. He did recite it ; and such was the 
efiect, that a dead silence ensued. It was such 
a siieuce as a mind of feeling naturally pre- 
serves when it is touched with that enlhu:>iasm 
which banishes every other thought but the 
contemplation and indulgence of the sympathy 
produced. Burns' Lord Gregory is, in my 
opinion, a most beautiful and affecting ballad. 
The fastidious critic may perhaps say, some 
of the sentiments and imagery are of too eleva- 
ted a kind for such a style of composition; 
for instance, "Thou bolt of Heaven that pass- 
est by ;" and, *■• Yemusleriug thunder,'' &c.; 
but this is a cold-blooded objection, which will 
be said rather than felt, 

' ' We enjoyed a most happy evening at Lord 
Selkirk 's. We had, in every sense of the word, 
a feast, in which our minds and our senses 
weie equally gratified. The poet was delight- 
ed with his company, and acquitted himself to 
admiration. The lion that had raged so vio- 
lently in the morning, was now as mild and 
gentle as a lamb. Jiexl day we returned to 
Dumfries, and so ends our peregrination. I 
told you, that in the midst of the storm, on the 
wilds of Kenmore, Burns was wrapt in niedi- 
tation. W hat do you think he was about ? 
He was charging the English army, along with 
Bruce, at Bauuockburn. He was engaged in 
the same manner on our ride home from St 
Mary's Isle, and I oiti not disturb him. N;xt 
da^ he produced me the loUcwing address of 



BURNS.- LIFE. 



49 



> to his (roups, and gave me a copy for 



• Scots, whaba' 



' VVaIla< 



rbled.'&c." 



Burns bad entertained hopes of promotion 
in the Excise ; but circun:stances occurred 
which retarded their fultiluienr, s.iid which, in 
his own mind, desiro^ed all especiation of 
their being: ever fullilled. The exiiaordinary 
events which ushered in the revolution of 
France, interested ibe feeiings, and excited the 
hopes of men in every comer" of Europe. Pre- 
judice and l\raii!j_Y seemed about to disappear 
from among'uien.'and the daj-siar of rea^oa to 
ri5e upon a beniuihied wcrld. In the dawn of 
this beautiful u.oriiiii? ihe g^enius of French 
freedom appeared on our souibern horizon with 
the countenance of cii an^el, but speedily as- 
sumed the icauire, of a demon, and vanished 



a Jacobite and a cavalier, 
>liarfu m liie original hopes enter- 
is a>tLii!sbiiig- revolution, by ardent 
lent niii.as. ' The novelty and the 
he attempt meditated by the First, 
?ut At..s(MMbly, served rather, it is 
) recommend it to his daring tem- 
le unfettered scope proposed to be 
ery kii.d of talents, Mas doubtless 



1 houph f 



tityin- t, 



e feelin 



-, but 



not the mighty 
ruin that was to be the imri-.ediate consequence 
of an enterprise, which, on Us commencement, 
promised so much happine.-,s to the human 
race. And even ufter ihe career of guilt and 
of blood coirmienced, he could not iiiimediately, 
it may be presumed, withdraw his paxtial gaze 
from a people who had so lately breathed the 
sentimci.ls of universal peace and benignity, 
or (obliterate in his bosom the pictures of hope 
and of happiness to which those sentiments 
b:d given birth. Under these impressions, be 
did not always conduct himself with the cir- 
cumspection and prudence which his depend- 
ent situation seemed to demand. He engaged 
indeed in no popular associations so coiamon 
at the time of which we speak ; but in com- 
pany he did not conceal his opinions of publi 



or of the refori 



■(.uircd in the 

Sractice of our government ; ann sometimes, in 
is social and unguarded ipomen's, he uttered 
them with a wild ami unjustiliable vehemence. 
Information of this was given to the Jboard of 
Excise, with the exasgerations so general in 
Buch cases. A superior officer in that de- 
partment was authorized to inquire into his 
conduct. Burns defended himself in a letter 
addressed to one of the board, written with 
|;reat independence of spirit, and with more 
than kis accustomed eloquence. The officer 
appointed to inquire into his conduct gave a 
favourable report. His steady friend. INIr 
Graham of Fintra, interposed his good offii 
in hia behalf; and the imprudent gauger v 
suffered to retain his situation, but given to 
j understand that his promotion was deferred, 
i and must depend on his future bt;l,aviour. 

This circumstance made a deep impression 
on the mind of Burns. Fame exaggerated his 
misconduct, and represented him as actually 
dismissed from his office: and this report in- 
■- duoed a gentleman of much respectability to 
prop9be a gubscrii)lion iu his favour. Tlie 



offer was refused by our poet n a ]eller c4 , 
great elevation of senliinenl, in which he give* ' 
an account of the whole of this transaction, and ' 
defends himself from imputation of disl<ya' 
sentiments on the one hand, and on the other, 
from the charge of having made submiss-ms 
for the sake of his office, unworthy of his char- 

•' The partiality of my countrymen," he ob- 
serves, " has brought me forward as a man of 
genius, and has given me a character to sup- 
port. In the poet I have avowed manly ami 
Mtriependent sentiments, -which I hope have 
been found in the man. Reasons of no less 
weight than the support of a wile and children, 
have pointed out my present occupation as tiie 
only eligible line of life within my reach. Still 
my honest fame is my dearest concern, and a 
thousand times have 1 trembled at the idea of 
the degrading epithets ths.! malice or misrepie 



blastin 



affix 



:. Cilcn 
red to sc 



anticipation l;a»e 
inture nackney scribbler, v.iin tue Heavy u;;i- 
lice of savage stupidity, exultingly asserting 
ttat Burns, notwithstancmg xaejunjarovaau cf 
independence to be found in his works, and 
after having been held up to public view, and 

yet, quite destitute of resources within himself 
to support his borrowed dignity, dwindled mlo 
a paltry cxcifenian, and slunk out the rest of 
ificant existence in the meanest ot 









:, pen 



kind. 

it mi 

:eof .1 



falsehoods, tun: 
from his birth, and an exciseman by necessity ; 
but — Itc-»7/ say it! the sterling of his honest 
worth, poverty could not debase, and his inde- 
pendent British spirit, oppression might bend, 
but couid not subdue. " 

it was one of the last acts of his life to copy 
this letter into his book of manuscripts, ac- 
companied by some additional remarks on the 
same subject. It is not surprising, that at a 
season of universal alarm for the safet) of the 
constitution, the indiscreet expressions cf a man 
so powerful as Burns, should have attracted 
notice. T"he times certainly required extraor- 
dinary vigilance in those intrusted with the 
administration of the government, and to insure 
the safety cf the constitution was doiibtlesa 
their tirst duty. Yet generous minds will la- 
ment that their measures of precaution should 
have robbed the imagination of our poet of the 
last prop on w hich his hopes of independence 
rested, and by embittering his peace, have ag- 
gravated those excesses which were soon to 

Ihoughthe vehemei-ce of nunis's temper, 
increased as it often was by stimiiiating liquors, 
might lead him into many improper and un- 
guarded expressions, there seems no reason to 
doubt of his attachment to our mixed form of 
government. In his common-place book, 
i where he could have no temptation to disguise, 
are the following sentiments — ""SVhatever 
might le my sentiments of republics, ancient 
or nicdern, as to lirit^in, T ear adjured the 






lal 



e ha: 



) be t 



principles, 

way fitted for our happinrss, it would be i 

sanity to abandon for an untried visionarjf 

theory, " Ju couforniity to ikese scaiiuiento. 



iJlAMOM) CaRlXF.T LfBRAKY. 



whea I&9 prptsinp nahire of public affairs call- 
ed in 17:>5 for a greueral ariiiiiiir of iLe pf»ople. 
Burns ajipeared in the ranks of the DuoitriM 
VDJuntet^rs, and emploi-ed hist poetical tAlenls 
ill s!imuiatins» their patriotism ; and at this 
Eeason of alarai, he brcusht forward the fol- 
lowing hwna, worthy of the Cirecian muse, 
when Greece was moat con£picuou3 for geoius 
and \alour. 

Scene— j4 Fidd of BaUle—Time of the day. 
Evening — tJif tootinded and d^ing of the xir- 
loriuws ai-tny ai t suppoesd to j&ia in the foU 
Unciiig S^iig. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou jjreen earth, and 



Onr race cf existence is mn I 
Thou prim king of terrore, thou life's gloomy 



No terrors hast tbon to the brave t 

Thou 8trik«st the dull peasant, he sinki la the 
dark. 

Nor saves e'en thp wreck of a name ; 
Tlioa strikest the young hero— a o;iorLou« mark! 

He falls in the "blaze of his fame i 

In the field of proud honour— our svrm-da in 
our hands, 

Onr kine and our conntrv to save — 
\Yii\le victory shines on life's lasi eLbins sands, 

O '. who would not rest with ihe brave '. * 

Though by nature of an athletic form. Burns 
had in his constiiution the peculiarities and the 
delicacies that beloiis to the temperament of 
genius. He was iiabie, from a very early pe- 
riod of Ufe, to that interriiplion in the process 
of digestion, which arises from deep and anxious 
thouijhl, acd which is sometimes the efiect, and 
sometimes the cause of depression of spirits. 
Connected with this disorder of the stomach, 
there was a disposition to head-ache, affecting 
more especially the temples and eye-bai!s, and 
frequently accompanied by yiolent and irresular 
jnovemeuts of the heart. Endowed by nature 
with great sensiDUity of nerves, Burns was, in 
liis corporeal, as well as in his mental system, 
liable to inordinate impressions ; to fever of 
body as well as of mind- This predisposition 



* This poem was written in 1791. It was 
printwi in Johnson's .Musical Museum, The 
poet had an intention, in the ialter part of his 
life, of printing it separately, set to music, 
but was advised against it, or at least discour- 
aged from it. The martial ardour which rose 
so high afterwards, on tjie threatened invasion, 
had not then acquiied the tone necessary to 
give popularity to this noble poem ; which, to 
the editor, seems mote calculated to invigorate 
the spirit of defence, in a season of real and 
pressing danger, than any production of modern 
times. It is here prmted with his last correc- 
tioas. 



to disease, which strict temperance in diet, 
regular exercise, and sonnd sWp, lai^kt b*^m 
suiiUued, habit! of s dillerenl oatnre stren^.a- 
etied and inhamed. Perpetuallf stimaiated by 
alcohol in one or other of it* vai-ionA forms, the 
inordinate actions oi the circuladu? system be- 
came at length habitual : the proc^ssof nuui- 
tion was unable to supply the waste, and tee 
powers of life began to fail. Upwards of a 
year before his cieain. there «raa an evident de- 
cline in our poet's personal appearance, ani 
though bis appetite couiinaed iic<mpi><red, he 
was himself sensible that his constitution wa* 
einkiog. In his moments of tnought fapTetiecl- 
ed with the deepest regret on his taial progress, 
clearly foreftecing the goal luwaids which lie 
was hastening, without the strength of mind 
necessary to stop, or even to slacken hisccur.e. 
His temper now became more irrituble and 
gloomy ; he fled from himself into society 
often of the lowest kind- And in such com- 
pany, that part of the convivial scene, in 
which wine increases sensibility and e^citee 
benevolence, was hurried over, to reach the 
succeeding part, over which uncontrolled pas- 
sion generally presid<?d. He who sutiers t!ie 
poilotion of inebriation, how shall he escape 
other pollution ? U\ii let us refrain from the 
mention of errors over which delicacy and 
humanity draw the veil. 

In the midst of all his wanderinjrs, Furns 
met nothing in his domestic circle but gentle- 
ness and forgiveness, except in the gnaw tugs 
of his own remorse. He acknowledged his 
transgressions to the wife of his bosom, pro- 
mis«>d amendment, and again and again re- 
ceived pardon for bis ofleuces. But as the 
ptreiiglb of his body decayed, bis resolution 
became feebler, and habit acquired predomina- 
ting strength. 

l-'rom October, 1792, to the January follow- 
ing, an accidental complaint confined him to 
the hoube. A few days after he began to go 
abroad, he dined at a tavern, and returned boma 
about (hree o'clock in a very cold irorning, be- 
numbed aud intoxicated. This was followed by 
an attack of rheumatism, which coniined him 
about a week. His appetite now began to 
fall : his band shook, and his voice faltered on 
any exertion or emotion. His pulse became 
Weaker and more rapid, and pain in the larger 
joints, and in the hands and feet, deprived him 
of the eiijoyuienf of refreshing sleep. Too 
much dejected in bis spirits, and tw well aware 
of his real situation to entertain hopes of re- 
covery, he was ever musing on the approaching 
desolation of his family, and his spirits suck 

It was hoped by some of his friends, that 
if he could live through the mouths of spring, 
the succeeding season might restore him. But 
they were disappointed. The genial beams of 
the sun infused no vigour into his languid 
frame ; the summer wind blew upon him, but 
produced no refresimient. About the latter 
end of June he was advised to go into the 
country, and, impatient of medical advice, as 
well as of every species of control, he deter- 
mined for himself to try the efl'ects of bathing 
in the sea. For this purpose he took up his 
residense at Brow, in Annandale, aboiit ten 
e«t of Uumfries, on the shore of ttie 



» lady witk 



Solw , 
It happened (hat at that 



BURNS.— LIFE. 



wliomi* Jad bsea conij«te<rin friendship bT 
tbp gyinp*tJ»iss oi kindrpd genius, was residk ^ 
ID the immediate neigbbourhood- K«iDg in- 
formed of hi» arrJTal, she in-nted hira to din- 
rter, and sent he* ewri&ge for hira to the cottage 
whare be lodged, u he was unable to walk. 
— '• I wat tovct," wiys this lady (in a conti- 
dential letter to a friend written soon after), 
•* with his appearance on entering tne roc-m. 
The itamp of denlh was impressed on hi» 
featares. He &eemed already touciiing the 
brink of eternity. tlia hrsl saJulaticn -was 
• Well, madam,' have you any commands for 
the other world?' I replied, that it seemed a 
doubtful ease which of us ghonld be there soon- 
est, and that 1 hoped that he wo«ld yet live to 
write my epitaph. (I was then m a poor 
state of fcealth. ) He looked in my face with 
an air of great kindness, and expressed his con- 
cern at seeing me look so ill, with bis accns- 
tomed sensibility. At table he ate little or 
nothii\g, and he complained of having entirely 
lost the tone of his stomach. We had a long 
aad serious conversation about his present 
■itnation, and the approaching termiaation of 
all his earthly prospects, tie spoks of his 
death without any of the ostentation of pbilo- 
sopbv, but withtirmness as well as feeling -as 
an event likely to happen very soon, and which 
gave him concern chiefly from leaving his four 
children so joung and nnjjrotecied, and his 
wife in so interesting a situation — in hourly ex- 
pectation of lying ia of a liftb. He meutioued, 
with seeming pride and satisfaction, the pro- 
mising genius of his eldest son, and the tlatter- 
iog marks of approbation he had received from 
his teachers, and dwelt particularly ou his hopes 
of that boy 's future conduct and merit. His 
anxiety for his family seemed to hang heavy 
■ pen him, and the more perhaps from the re- 
jection that he had not done them all the 
jvstice he waf so well qualilied to do. Pass- 
ini,- from this subject, be showed great concern 
about the care of his literary fame, and particu- 
larlv the publication of his posthumous works. 
He said be was well aware that his death would 
occasion some noise, and that every scrap of 
his writing would be revived against him to 
the injury of his future reputation j that let- 
ters and verses written with unguarded and 
improper freedom, and which he earnestly 
wished to have buried in oblivion, would be 
handed about by idle vanity or m<ilevolence, 
when no dread of his resentment would re- 
straia them, or prevent the censures of sfarili- 
tongued malice, or the insiaious sarcasms of 
envy, from pouring forth all their veuora to 
blast his fame. 

•• He lamented that he had written many 
epigrams on persons against whom he en- 
tertnined no enmity, snd whose ctiaracters he 
•hoald be sorry to wound ; and many indiifer- 
•nt poetical pieces, which he feared would 
' BOW, with all their imperfections on their head, 
he thrust opon the werid. On ?hu account 
he deeply regretted having deferred to put 
bis papers into a state of arrangement, as ha 
was now quite incapable of the exertion." — 
The lady goes on to mention many other topics 
•f a private nature on wiiich he spowe. — 
* •• The eon»«r»atioB, " she adds, " was kept up 
' with great evenness end animation on bis sia.»- 
- 1 i»>tit ll>^idom seen his mind greater or mori' 
eoUscted. Ihtre was freqttentlj a consider- 



able degTi^ of vfvaeiiy in h's sallifls, ard thef 
would probaDly bav» had a greater share, bad 
not the concern and dejection 1 eoold not dis 
guise, damped the spirit of pleasantry hs 
seemed not CDwiUiog to indolge. 

«' >Ve parted about snaset on the eyening 
of that day (the deb of July, 1796); tbe oeit 
day I saw him again, and we parted to meet 

At tirst, Uorns imagined bathing in the sea ' 
had been of benefit to him : the pains in his 
limbs were relieved ; but this was iminediateiy 
followed by a new attack of fever. \Vhen 
brought back to his own house in DumlVies, 
on the 18th of July, be was no louder able to 
stand upright. At this time a tremor per- 
vaded his irame ; bis tongue was parched, and 
his mind sunk into delirium, wlieu not roused 
by oonversatioiu On the second and thud 
day the fever increased, and his strength dimi- 
nished. On the fourth, the sufieriugs of this 
great, but ill-fated genius were terminated, 
and a life was closed in which virtue and pas- 
sion had been at perpetual variance.* 

The death of Btirns made a strong and 
general impression on all who had interested 
tbem^ehes in his character, and especially on 
the inhabitants of the town and county ia 
which he had spent the latter years of his life. 
Flagrant as his follies and errors had been, 
they had not deprived him of the respect and 
regard entertained for the extraordinary powers 
of his genius, and the generous qualities of his 
heart. Ihe Gentlemen Volunteers of Dum- 
fries determined to bury their illustrious asso- 
ciate with military honours, and every prepar- 
ation was made to render this last service 
solemn and impre.ssive. The Fencible Infan- 
try of Angus-shire, and the regiment of cavalry 
ot the Cinque Ports, at that time quartered in 
Domfries, offered their assistance on this oe- 



the funeral procession ; and a i 
of persons assembled, some of them from a 
considerable distance, to witness the obsequies 
of the Scottish Bard, On the evening of the 
25th of Jtdy, the remains of Bums were re- 
moved from his house to the TowD-Hall, and 
the funeral took place on the succeeding day. 
A party of the volunteers, selected to perform 
the military duty in the church-yard, stationed 
themselves in the front of the proces8.on, with 
their arms reversed ; the main body of thr? 
corps surrounded and supported the coffin, on 
which were placed tlie hat and sword of ihsir 
friend and fellow-soldier ; the numerous bod) 
of attendants ranged themselves in the rear , 
while the Fencible regiiients of iafautry ami 
cavalry lined the streets !rom the Towii-Hali 
to the borial-groand in fh* Sontdern church 
yard, a distance of more than half a mile. 
The whole procession moved forward to tbst 
snblima and aH'ecling strain of music, toe 
Dexsd Harch in !ja»l i and three Toileys Cred 
over hi* grave, marked the return of Burns to 
bis parent earth J The spectacle was in a high 
degree grand and solemn, aftd accorded with 



* The parliculrjs respecting the i!!!ie*B and 
death of tJuras were otbg.ugly f-..rui5h.:d 
by Ur M4iwe)l, the physician rtho atleuac<i 



58 



DLAMOXD CABINET LIBRARY. 



the general sentiments of syin[i:itliy and sorrow 
whiuh the occasion had called forth. 

It was aa attecting circurnslauce, that on 
the morning; of the day of her husband's fune- 
ral, 3]rs Burns was uudergolng the pains of 
labour, and that, during the sofeinn service we 
have jotst been describing, tlie posthumous jpa 
of our poet was burn. This infant boy, who 
received the name of Maxwell, was not destined 
• to a long life, lie has already become an 
inhabitant of the s,ime grave with his celebrated 
father. The four other children of our poet, 
all sons (the eldest at that time about ten 
years of age) yet survive, and give every pro- 
mise of prudence and virtue tUat can be ex- 
pected from their tender years. They remain 
under the care of iheir ati'<;ct lonate mother in 
Dumfries, and are enjoyiug the means of edu- 
datiou which the excellent schools of that town 
f tFord : the teachers of which, in their conduct 
to the children of Burns, do themselves great 
hinour. On this occasion, the name of Mr 
\V'hyte deserves to be particularly mentioned, 
hioiseif a poet as well as a man of science.* 

Burns died in great poverty ; but the inde- 
pendence of his spirit, and the exemplary pru- 
dence of his wife, had preserved him from 
debt. He had received from his poems a c:ear 
profit of about nine hundred pounds. Of this 
sum, the part expended on his library (which 
was far from extensive) and in the humble 
furniture of his house, remained; and obliga- 
tions were found for two hundred pounds 
advanced by him to the assistance of thobe to 
whom he was united by the ties of blood, and still 
more by those of estee.n and aflection. When 
it is considered, that his expenses in Edin- 
burgh, and on his various journeys, could not 
be inconsiderable : that his agricultural uuder- 
taking was unsuccessful : that his income from 
the Excise was for some time as low as tifiy, 
and never rose to above seventy pounds a-year ; 
that bib family was large, and his spirit liberal 
— no one will be surprised that his circum- 
stances were so poo/, or that, as bis health 
decayed, his proud and feelitig heart sunk under 
the secret consciousness of indigence, and the 
apprehensions of absolute want. Yet poverty 
never bent the spirit of Burns to any pecuniary 

ever appeared in his conduct. He carried his 
disregard of money to a blameable excess. 
Even in the midst of distress he bore himself 
loftily to the world, and received with a jealous 
reluctance every offer of friendly assislauce. 
His printed poems had procured him great 
celebrity, and a just and fair recompense for 
the latter otfsprings of his pen might have 
produced him considerable emolument. In 
{be year 1765, the Editor of a Loudon news- 
paper, high in its character for literature, and 
iiiJependeuce of sentiment, made a proposal 
to him that he should furnish them, once a- 
week, with an article for their poetical depart- 
rae'il, and receive from them a recompense of 
bt'tji-two guineas per annum; an offer which 
the pride of genius disdained to accept. Yet 
be had for several years furnished, and was at 
that time furnishing, the Museum of Johnson 
with his beautiful lyrics, without fee or reward. 



* The author of St Guerdon's Well, a poem ; 
&Dd of A 2'ribule to the Memory <]f' Biii-ns. 



and was obstinately refusing all recompense 
for his assistanc« to the greater work of Air 
Thomson, which the justice and generosity of 
that gentlemen was pressing upon him. 

The sense of his poverty, and of the ap- ' 
proachiug distress of his infant family, pressed 
heavily on Burns as he lay on the bed of death. 
Yet he alluded to his indigence, at times, with 
something approaching to his wonted gaiety. 
— " What bubiness, " said he to Dr Maxwell, 
who attended him with the utmost zeal, "has 
a physician to waste his time on me ? I am a 
poor pigeon, not worth plucking. Alas! I 
have not feathers enough upon me to carry me 
to my grave." And when his reason was lost 
in deiinum, his ideas ran in the same melan- 
choly train; the horrors of a jail were continu- 
ally present to his troubled imagination, and 
produced the most affecting exclamations. 

As for some mouths previous to his death 
he had been incapable of ths duties of his office. 
Burns had imagined that his salary was reduced 
one half, as is usual in such cases. The 
Board, however, to their honour, continued his 
full emoluments; and Mr Graham of Fintra, 
hearing of his illness, though unacquainted 
with its dangerous nature, made an offer of bis 
assistance towards procuring him the means of 
preserving his health. —Whatever might be the 
faults of Burns, ingratitude was not of the num- 
ber Amongst his manuscripts, various proofs 

are found of the sense he entertained of Mr 
Graham's friendship, which delicacy towards 
that gentleman has induced us to suppress ; 
and on the last occasion there is no doubt tiiat 
his heart overflowed towards him, though he 
had no longer the power of expressing his 

On the death of Burns, the inhabitants of ' 
Dumfries and its neighbourhood opened a 
subscription for the support of his wife and 
family; and Mr Miller, iMr M'Murdo, br 
Maxwell, and Mr Syme, gentlemen of the 
first respectability, became trustees for the 
application of the money to its proper objects. 
I'he subscription was extended to other parts 
of Scotland, and of England also, particularly 
London and Liverpool. By this means a 
sum was raised amounting to seven hundred 
pounds ; and thus the widow and children 
were rescued from immediate distress, and the 
most melancholy of the forebodings of Burns 
happily disappointed. It is true, this t.um, 
though equal to their present support, is in- 
sufficient to secure them from future peuury. 
Their hope in regard to futurity depends on 
the favourable reception of those volumes fiom 
the public at large, in the promoting of which 
the candour and humanity of the reader may 
indues him to lend his assistance. 

Burns, as has already been mentioned, was 
neai-ly five feet ten inches in height, and of a 
form that indicated agility as well as strength. 
His well-raised forehead, shaded with black 
ourling hair, indicated extensive capacity. 
His eyes were large, dark, full of ardour and 
intelligence. His face was well formed ; and 
his countenance uncommonly interesting and 



* The letter to Mr Graham alluded to above, 
is dated on the 13th of July, and probably ar- 
rived on the loth. Burns became delirious on 
the 17tb or 18th, and died on the 21,t. 



BURNS — LIFE. 



53 



expressive. His mode of dressing, which was 
oKeii sloveulj, and a cerlain fuhiess and bend 
in Uis sliouldtrs, characteristic of his original 
prufessioii, ditguibed in some degree the natu- 
ral sjmmelri uiid elegance of his form. The 
external appearance of Burns was most strik- 
ingly iadicative of the character of his mind. 
On atirst view, his physiognomy had a certain 
air of coarseness, mingled, however, with an 
expression of deep penetration, and of calm 
tliuughtfulness approaching to melancholy. 
There appeared in his lirat manner and address, 
perfect ease and self-possession, but a stern 
and almost supercilious elevation, not, indeed, 
incompatible with openness and affability, 
•which, however, bespoke a mind conscious of 

superior talents Strangers that supposed 

themselves approaching an Ayrshire peasant, 
who could make rhymes, and to whom their 
notice was an honour, found themselves speed- 
ily overawed by the presence of a man who 
bore himself with dignity, and who possessed 
a singular power of correcting forwardness ar.d 
of repelling intrusion. But though jealous of 
the respect due to himself. Burns never enforced 
it where he saw it was willingly paid ; and, 
though inaccessible to the approaches of pride, 
Le was open to every advance of kindness and 
of benevolence. His dark and haughty ccun. 
tenance easily relaxed into a look of good w ill, 
of pity, or of tenderness ; and, as the various 
emotions succeeded each other in his mind, as- 
sumed with equal ease the expression of the 
broadest humour, of the most extravagant mirlh, 
of the deepest melancholy, or of the most sub- 
corresponded with the expression of his fea- 
tures, and with the feelings of his mind. When 
to these endowments are added a rapid and 
distinct apprehension, a most powerful under- 
standing, and a happy command of language — 
of strength as well as brilliancy of expression — 
we shall be able to account for the extraordinary 
attractions of his conversation — for the sorcery 
which in his social parties he seemed to exert 
on all around him. In the company of women 
this sorcery was more especially apparent. 
Their presence charmed the hendof melancholy 
in his bosom, and awoke his happiest feelings ; 
it excited the powers of his fancy, as well as 
♦he tenderness of his heart ; and, by restrain- 
ing the vehemence and the exuberance of his 
language, at times gave to his manners the 
impression of taste, and even of elegance, 
which in the company of men they seldom pos- 
sessed. This influence was doubtless recipro- 
cal. A Scottish Lady, accustomed to the best 
society, declared with characteristic naivete, 
that no man's conversation eset carried her so 
completely off her feet as that of Burns ; and an 
English Lady, familiarly acquainted with se- 
veral of the most distinguished characters of 
the present times, assured the editor, that in 
the happiest of his social hours, there was a 
charm about Burns which she had never seen 
equalled. The charm arose not more from the 
power thaa the versatility of his genius. No 
languor could be felt in the society of a man 
who passed at pleasure from jfrure 1o gny, 
from the ludicrous to the pathetic, from the 
simple to the sublime ; who wielded all hig 
faculties with equal strength and ease, and 
never failed to impress the oftspring of hii fancy 
\i'\i\\ the stamp of his understanding. ^ 



This, indeed, is to represent Burns in hii 
happiest phasis. In large and mixed parties, 
he was often silent and dark, sometimes t.erc» 
and overbearing ; he was jealous of the proud 
man's scorn, jealous to an extreme of the inso- 
lence of wealth, and prone to avenge, even on 
its innocent possessor, the jiartiality of fortune. 
By nature kind, brave, sincere, and in asingu- 
lar degree compassionate, he was on the other 
h-ind proud, irascible, and vindictive. Hi3 
virtues and his failings had their origin in the 
extraordinary sensibility of his mind, and 
equally partook of the chills and glows of senti- 
ment. His friendships were liable to interrup- 
tion from jealousy or disgust, and his enmities 
died away under the influence of pity or self- 
accusation. His understanding was equal to 
the other powers of his mind, and his deliberate 
oi)inioiis were singularly candid and just; but, 
like other men of great and irregular genius, 
the opinions which he delivered in conversation 
were often the ofi^'spring of temporary feelings, 
and widely difi'erent from the calm decisions of 
his jtjdgmeiit. This was not merely true re- 
specting the characters of others, but in regard 
to some of the most important points of human 

On no subject did he give a more striking 
proof of the strength of his understanding, than 
in the correct estimate he formed of himself. 
He knew his owi: failings ; he predicted theii 
consequence ; the melancholy foreboding was 
never long absent from his mind; yet his pas- 
sions carried him down the stream of error, 
and swept him over the precipice he saw di- 
rectly iu his course. The fatal defect in his 
character lay in the comparative weakness of 
his volition, that superior faculty of the mind, 
which governing the conduct according to the 
dictates of the understanding, alone entitles it 
to be denominated rational; svhich is the pa- 
rent of fortitude, patience, and self-denial ; 
which, by regulating and combining human 
exertions, may be said to have aflected all that 
is great in the works of man, in literature, in 
science, or in the face of nature. The occupa- 
tions of a poet are not calculated to strengthen 
the governing povvers of the mind, or to weak 
en that sen^ilility which requires perpetual 
control, since it gives birth to the vehemence 
of passion as well as to the higher powers of 
imagination. Unfortunately the favourite oc- 
cupations of genius are calculated to increase 
all its peculiarities ; to nourish that lofty pride, 
which disdains the littleness of prudence, and 
the restrictions of order ; and, by indulgence, 
to increase that sensibility, which, in the 
present form of our existence, is scarcely- 
compatible with peace or happiness, even 
when accompanied with the choicest gifts of 

It is observed by one who was a friend and 
associate of Burns,* and who has contemplated 
and explained the system of animated nature, 
that no sentient being, with mental powers 
greatly superior to those of men, could possibly 

I live aiid be happy in this world " If such a 

I beiiiir really existed, " continues he, " his misery 
i would be extreme. With senses more delicate 
I and refined; with peroeptions more acute and 

! * Smellie-See his Fhilo 
I Histoi-ij, Vol. L p. b)i6. 



of Natural 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRAEY, 



peMfrstinf ; with a tpste &o exquisite that the 
objecti axoutiii Lim noulc by nc iceuis gratify 
It ; otilifff d to teed on fKiurubmeut too cru«s 
for bis frame ; he ma&t b* born o&i; to b« 
Giiserable, and the«c ctiuuetienof his existence 
-»oc'>d be Btterlj iHipossiUe. tve^ in 
present coDditloo, the sameness siid the in 
ditj cf objects £iid pursuits, the futility of 
leasure, and tiie infinite sourees of ezcns- 
ciatiug pain, are sapported with great liitfi. 
culty b\ cuitivut*<i tnd reined winds. In- 
crease cur seiigibiliue*, ccatiiiBe the E^me ob. 
lecu auu sUa:itiou, a«d no man coiiid beer to 



Ihus it appears, that our powers cf sensa- 
tion, as *<eil £» aii our other powers, ore 
adapted to ibe scene of car eiislence; Ibut 
tiiej are lioiited in n^ercj, a* Treli as in ^is- 

Ibe speculations cf Sir Smeuie are BOt to 
be cccsiuered as the drecuis of a theorist ; thty 
■vrere probably founced on sad experience. 
The being he gnppcses, " w^ilh senses more de- 
licate ana reCned, nilh perceptions more acute 
and penetrating," is to be found in real life. 
He is of the temperstnent of genius, end per- 
haps a poet- Is there, then, no reuiedv tor 
tbis inoruinate seneibilit} t Are there iio means 
!>y fshicb the happii^esc of one so ccn«titut*d 
by nature may be consulted T Perhaps it »iU 
be found, tbst re^:uiar ai.d constant occupation, 
iriisouie though it «iay at first be, is the true 
temecy. CccopMion in vhich the powers cf 
the underrtandinf^ are exercised, viill diminish 
the force of external inpressious, oiid keep tiia 
iniaguiatioB under restraint. 

Ihat the bent cf every man'a mind shonld 
be followed in his education and in his desiina- 
ticn in lite, is a maxisu vihicii has been clien 
repeated, but vhich cauiiot be adinitt.^i -witb- 
otit many restrictions. It may be generally 
true when applied to ^reakKiiruli, which, being 
capable of little, must be encouraged and 
strengthened in the feeble impulse* by which 
that liit'.e is produced. Ent where indulgent 
rii.iure has bestowed her gifts with a liberal 
huiiu, the --ery reverse tf this n;aiiuj ought tre- 



ote I 



e rule. 



R higher order, the oLjecl of 
discipline is very often to restraia rather than to 
in: pel ; to curb'tbe impulses of invagination so 
that the passions-aiso may be kept under con- 
troL* Henae the advantage!, even in a mo- 
r<u point of view, »f sttidies of a severe nature, 

* ^uinctilian discasaes the i«portant ^nes- 
fioa, whether the bent of the individual's re~ 
Bius should be followed in bis education ^ua 
«eci/K'-'jm sui quuque Uigenii deceiuCMs sit na- 
turam), chieHy, indeed, with a reference to the 
orator, but in a way that admits of very gene 
rai application, liis conclusions coincide very 
HiBcb with iboE* of th* text. Ah rere Iso- 
crstes cum Ce Ki-'horo alqwe I'/ietrpotijpo $icjudi- 
tarett vl alteri freais, aiteri caicaribtu opus 
ess* oiceret ; out » ilio Umiwre lerdiiaiem^ aiu 
in iiio pene f/rtecipiii coKcitcticnem aiirui'Oi- 
tfuHi do^itio esiitimavil f mm <iitet~icm eUtrti/e 
uatKra miseenlumi arbtb-artiur. imfccca'ts fa. 
mten tn^etdis sa«e tie obtequeiidvm sit, ul tcji- 
iU7a tn id que voeui BtUura, duccsUur. Ita 
enim, quod muni possiua, meliiLS tgicisnt.— 
loHu.. Orator, lib, ii. 9. 



which, while they itiform the understacdtBg* 
employ the voiition, that r^fulating power ct 
tl'ie mind, which, like all other tacuitiek, is 
strecgtbened by exercise, and on the snpericr- 
ity of which, virtue, bappineis, and honour, 
able fame, are wholly depeudeot. Hence also > 
the auvantBfe of regular and eonstKut applica- 
tion, which aids the velnciarj power by the 
prctiuction of fcalits E« necessary to the sup- 
port of order ana virtue, and so di£Bctl)t to be ' 
formed in the temperament of genius. 

Ibe man who is so eudoweil and eo regti- 
lateti, may porsne bis course with coaboeoce 
in almost any «t the varioos w alks of life w hich 
choice or tict-ident shall open to him ; and pro- 
vited he employs the taiei.is he has cultivated, 
n.ay hope tor sucb imperfect happiness, auti 
sucfa limited socceu, as are leasouably expect- 
ed Ircu bumaa exertions. 

The pre-emiuenee amocg men, which pro- 
cnres personal recpect, and wtich terminaua 
in lasting repntation, is seldom or never ob- 
tained by the excellence of a single faculty of 
Blind. Experience leaches lis, that it has been 
acquired by those only who have possessed 
the comprehension and (he eoergy cf general 
talents, and w ho have regulated their applica- 
tion, in the line which choice, or perhaps acci-^ 
dent may have determined, by the dictates of 
their jutigment. Imagination is supposed, and; 
with justice, to be the leading faculty of the 
poeu But what poet has slcod the test of 
lime by the force cf this single faculty '( Who 
does not sec that Ilcmer and hbakspeare ex- 
celled tbe rest cf their species in understand- 
ing as well as in imagination ; that they were 
pre-eminent in the highest species cf know- 
ledge — the kccwlecge of tbe nature and char- 
acter of man ? On the other hand, the talent 
cf ratiocination is mere especially requisite to 
tbe orator ; but no man ever obtained tbe 
palm of cratcry, even by tbe highest excellence 
in ibis single talent, who doi^ not perceive that 
Demosthenes and Cicero »ere net more bappy 
in their aduresses to the reason, than in their 
appeals to the paisions ? They knfw, that to 
excite, to agitate, and to deiigbt, are among 
the most potent arts of persuasion ; and they 
enforced iheir impression on tbe understanding, 
by their ccpimand of all the sympaibies cf the 
heart. Ifaese observations might be extended 
If other waiks of life. He fibo has the lacul- 
ties titled to excel in poetry, has tbe taculties 
which, dciv governed and diflereotly directed, 
might lean to pre-eoiinence in other, and, es far 
as respects himself, perhaps in bappier destina- 
tions. Ibe talents necessary to the c«n&lruction 



night i 






'. led t 



appli- 



to Ticiory, 

kingdoms to prosperity; might have wielded 
tbe thunder of eloquence, or discovered and 
enlarg*^ the sciences that constitute (he power, 
ana improve iLe concition ci our species. f 



+ The reader mnst not suppose it is contended 
that tbe same individual could have excelled lo 
all these directioaa. A certain degree of in- 
struction and practice is necessary to excel' 
lence in evei-y one, and life is too short to 
admit of one man. however great bis talents, 
acquiring this in all cf theai. It is only ansert- 
ed, that the same talents dilierently spplied, 
Bight bavb succeeded in aui/ cne, though p«r* 



BURNS.— LIFE. 



£5 



fcnps, Bot equally ■well in each. And, aHer all, 
tKis position requires calaia limitaiiouii, -vrkieJh 
trie reader's candour and jn'l|:nie»ii wi!! supply. 
In supposiug that s grrrat poai cigat iia»« 
made a great orator, tbe pbvbicaJ qcalities 
neceasary to oratory are pre»apposed. In «up- 
}>osing iikts & ST^a.t otator mi^Ut have made a 
great poet, it i« a n6Ctfi»»ary cor.ditioa, that he 
should have deroted himself to poetry, and that 
he ehoald ha>e acquired a proficieuc) io. raetncai 
Bumberg which by patience ajia a:ientioa may 
be acquired, though the want of it has embar- 
rassed and chiUed laaay of the first efiorts of 
true poetical eenius. Ut iopposicg that Homer 
juight have led armies to ^-sctory, more indeed 
is assumed than the physical qc;'iiiies of a peae- 
■>«1. To the«i must be added that hardihood of 
mind, that co-jlneas in the mid«t of difEcaity 
kad d»iu:er. which rreat poets and orators 4r« 
found to-.netimes, bat not alwfcj'S, to po&sets. 
The Ealure of the icstitntious of Greece and 
IU>m« pmcaced more instance* of single indi- 
viduald who excelled in various departments of 
cctive and specuiative life^ than occur io 
BXKlern Europe, where the eraploymesu of 
men are subdivided. IVIany of th« greatest 
warriors of aatiquity excelled in literature tmd. 
in oratory. That they had the mmds of gre&X 
poeiM, also will be admitted^ when the qualities 
are justly appreciated which are necessary to 
ercite, cora^tD«, and command the active eiier- 
fries of a great body of men, to rouse that entha- 
siaam whicii sustains fati^-ue, hQt;(.-er, and the 
:uclemeixe>e? of ths elements, ana which tri- 
smphs over the fear of death, the most power- 



ful ii 



;t ofo 



The auihority of Cicero may be appealed to 
to favour of the close connection between 
poet and the orator. Est enimjinitimu* oralari 
s-veii, Huaieris otitlHctwr pauio, verhorvm ai 
ii^iida itiie-ncr, <J-c. De Orator, lib. L c 
See also, lib. iii. c 7. — It is true the eiuu 
•f Cicero may be quoted against his opin 
His attempts in verse, which are praised by 
r'loiarch, did not ine^t the approbaDon of 
Juvenal, or of many others. Cicero probabiy 
did not take sufficient time to learu the art of 
the poet I but tbat he hac the cfiazuf ne<;essflry 
to poetical excellence, may be abundantly 
proted from his compositions ia pro^e. On 
the other baud, notaiaz- is more clear, than 
that, in the character of a (rreat poet, *il the 
mental qualities at an orator are included. It 
is said by Qaiucliiiau of Homer, Omnibtt* elo- 
^leiitug piviibus. f^ea^pium tt sntum dedil. Lib. 
■ 47. Ttie study of liijcier is therefore re- 
i;>mut«{ided to the orator, as of tha first impor- 
ance. Of the two sublims poets in our own 
.anguage, who ore scarcely i'lf-.T-or to Houier, 
Shatespeare, and MiitoOs a sitniiar recommeu- 
Catioo may be given- How much an acqu.dn- 
ttace with tiiem has aviiiled the great orator 
wuo is now the pride and ornament of the 
English bar, need not IM mentioned, nor need 
we point out by name a character which may 
be appealed to with eonhdense when we are 
contending for the universality of genias. 

The identity, or at least the great similarity 
of the talents necessary to exceil-scce in poetry, 
•r&tory, paiuting, and war, -will be aOKitted 



them into full exertion ar» rarer stOL B«t 
safe and salutary o«CEpAti«ii« may ba found for 
men of geni&s ia every direction, while the 
nsef&l and ornatnenial arts remain to be ealti- - 
TRied, while tie geiene«3 remain to be studied - 
and to b« exteaded, and the priaeiplea of 
scieiie<» to b« applied to the correction and im- 
protemsBt of art. In the temperament of sen- 
sibility, which is in truth the temperament of .; 
general talents, the principal object of discip- i 
line and instructioa is, as ha» already been ^ 
mentioued, to gtreasrfhen the self-command; { 
and this may be promoted by the direction of , 
the studies, more etfectuully perhaps than has [ 
been generally enderstood- t- 

It these obesrvntior.s fee founded in truth, ; 
they Bsay lead to practical consequences of soma . 
impoKcnae- It has been too much the custom •• 
to consider the possession of poetical talents as ^ 
excluding the posaibility of uppiieation to the ^ 
severer braochea of stady, and as iu soae de- ■ 
gre« iosapacitatisg the possessor from attaining . 
thoM habiu, &ad from bestowing that attention, < 
*hich are necessary to Kuccess in the details 
of business, and in the engagements of active 
life. It has beea coBBmoa for persons conscious 
of such talents, to look with a sort of disdain 
on other kinds of intellectual excellence, and 
to c^n-ider themselves as in some degree 
absolved from these rules of prudence by 
■which humbler minds are restricted- They are 
toe moct disposed to abeBdoatbenriselves to their 
•wn secs&taons, a&d te suixer life to pass away 
without regular exertiob, or settled purpose. 

Eut though men of genius aie generally 
prone to indolenc«, with them indolence and 
Bihappiueas are in a more especial manner al- 
lied- The Eubidoea splendours of imaginatioa 
may indeed at ti tries irradiate the gloom whicli 
inactivity produces ; b«t such visions, though 
briirht, are transieftt, aad serve to cast the re- 
alities of life into deeper shade. In bestowing 
great taienta, Natnra secrus very generally to 
htive imposed ou the potsessor the necessity of 
exertion, if he would escape wretchedness. 
Belter for him than sloth, toils the most pain- 
ful, or adventures the most ha^ardooa. Hap- 

T to him than idleness, were the condition 
the peasant, earning with incessant labotur 



by some, who will be Inclined to dispute the ' 
estensiou of the position to science or natural 
knowi&lge- On this occJisior. 1 tnay quote the 
following observations of Sir ^Viiliam Jones, 
whose own example will, however, far exceed 
in weight the authoritv of his precepts. 
•*A^)U^01o had so ficarlsbing a reputation, 
thai several percons of Uneouiicon geuitis wera 
ambiliooB of Ie!iri:iag the art of ]K)etry from so 
able an instrnett>r. His moet iliiistrious scho- 

lesa eminent for their I'crsian comfKssitiona, 
than for their skill in every branch of pure aad 
mixed mathematics, and particularly la astro- 
nomy ; a striking proof that a sublisee poet 
may becotae master ei any kind of learning 
which he chooses to prcicss ; since a fine 
itasginauoti, a lively wit, an easy and copiooa 
s^le, eaatot possibly obstruct the acquisitica 
of any science whate'ver ; tut must necessarily 
assist hiin ia ^his studies, aad ahorten his 
labour, " ' 



lilAMOMJ CAiilXET LIBRARY. 



•lis scant; food ; or that of the sailor, though 
:iaugiug ua the jaru-urui aud wreblling with 
ihe hurricane. 

"lljese observations might be amply illustrat- 
ed by the biography of meu of geuius of e\erjr 
ieuomiuaiiou. aud" more especially by the bio- 
graphy of the poets. Of this last description 
of meu, few seem to have enjoyed the usual 
portion of happiuess that falls to tiie lol of La- 
luanity, those excepted who have cultivated 
poetry as an elegant amusement iu the hours 
of relaxation from other occupatiuiis, or ilie 
small number who have engaged with success 
iu the greater or more arduous attempts of the 
muse, in which all the faculties of the mind 
have been fully aud permanently employed. 
Even taste, virtue, and comparative independ- 
ence, do not seem capable of bestowing, ou 
men of genius, peace and tranquillity, without 
such occupittion as may give regular aud health- 
ful exercise to the faculties of body and mind. 
The amiable Sheastone has left us the records 
of his iiuprudence, of his indolence, and of his 
uuhappiutrss, amidst the shades of the Leas- 
owes;' and the virtues, the learning, and the 
genius of Gray, equal to the loftiest attempt of 
the epic nlu^e, failed to procure him, iu the aca- 
demic bowers of Cambridge, that tranquillity 
and that respect which less fastidiousness of 
laste, and greater constancy and vigour of exer- 
ion, woulu have doubtless obtained. 

it is more necessary that men of genius 
ihould be aware of the importance of self-com- 
.uand, and of exertion, because their indolence 
is peculiarlv exposed, not niereiv to unhappi- 
•' ■ and I 



,ting subj 

on : but we must content oui 

r two cursory remarks. Reii 



generally fat.il. This i 
.elves \» itii 



tlie various wounds to fyhich indolent sensibi- 
lity is exposed, and under the gloomy appre- 
hensions respecting futurity to wh.ch it is so 
often a prey, how strung is the temptation to 
have recourse to an antidote by which the pain 
of these wounds is suspended, by which the 
heart is exhilarated, ideas of hope aud of hap- 
piness are excited in the mind, aud the forms 
of external nature clothed with new beauty ! — 

Elysium opens round, 
A pleasing frenzy buoys the lighteu'd soul. 
And sanguine hupes dispel your lieetiug care ; 
And what was ditficul;, aud what vwis djre. 
Yields to your prowess, aud superior stars : 
The happiest of you ail that e'er were mad. 
Or are, or shall be, could this foily lasU 
But soon your heaven is gouej a heavier 



Shuts o'e 



r head— 



—Morning o 






ight from the melaucholy of indoicuce 
practices, which for a time soothe aud gratify 
the sensations, but which iu the end involve 
the suli'erer iu darker gloom. To command 
the external circumstances by which happiness 
is aS'ected, is not iu human power : but tiiere 
tre various substances iu nature which operate 
vu the system of the nerves, so as to give a bc- 
titious jaiety to the ideas of ijaagiLiation, aud 
to alter the effect of the external impressions 
which we receive. Opium is chieiiy e;u;^p.o\ed 
for this purpose by the disciples of MiUiumet, 
and the inhabitants of Asia ; but alcohoJ, the 
principle of intoxication in vinous aud spirUu^ 
ous liquors, is preferred in Europe, and is uni- 
v^ersally used in the Ciiriitian world, f Under 



* See his letters, which, as a display of the 
efiacts of p jeLicai idleness, are higiily iustruc- 

f There are a great number of other sub- 
stances which may be considered under this 
point oi" view — Tobacco, tea, aud coffee, are of 
the number- These substances essentially 
diii'er fro. a each other in their qualities : and 
an inquiry into the particular effects of each ou 
the health, morals, and .happiness, of those 
who use them, would be curious and useful, 
'ihe effects of wine and of opium ou the tem- 
perament ot' sensibility, the Editor intended to 
have discussed in this place at some length; 
but b«> liuud the subject too professional to be 
introduced with propriety. The di^calty of 



With tenfold rage. An a 
May be endured : so may the throbbing heuU : 
But such a dim delirium, such a dream 
Involves you ; such a dastardly despair 
Unmans your soul, as madd'uiug Pentheus 

felt. 
When, baited round Cithairon's cruel sides. 
He saw two suus aud double Thebes ascend. 
Armstrong's Ait of i'rtierviiig HadUi, b. 
iv. L lt>3. 

Such are the pleasures and the pains of in- 
toxication, as they occur in the temperament of 
sensiuility, described by a genuine poet, with a 
degree of truth aud euergy which nothing but 
experience could have d.ctated. There are, 
indeed, some individuals uf liiis temperaiiieut 
on whom wine produces no cheering iudueuoe. 
On some, even in very moderate quantities, 
its effects are painfully irritatiug ; in large 

and in doses stiJl larger, the nerceucss of in- 
sanity itself, bucu men are happiiy exempted 
from a temptation, to which experience leache* 



abandoning any of these narcotics, (if we may 
so term them,) when inclination is strengthen 
ed by habit, is well known. Johnson, iu bis 
distresses, had experienced the cheering tut 
treacherous inliuenceof wine, and, by a power- 
ful elibrt, abandoned it. He was obliged, 
however, to use tea as a substitute, and this 
was the solace to which he constantly had re- 
course uiuier his habitual melancholy. The 
praises of v.iue form many of the most beauti- 
ful lyrics of the poets of Greece and liome, 
and modern Europe. Whether opium, whicn 
produces visions still more ecstatic, has been 
the theme of the eastern poets, 1 do not know. 
,e is taken in small doses at a time, in 
pany, where, for a time, it promotes har- 
mony and social ahection. Opium is swallow- 
ad by the Asiatics in full doses at ouce; and the 
inebriate retires to the soutary indulgence of 
his delirious imaginations. Hence the wine- 
drinker appears iu a superior light to the im- 
biber of opium, a distinction which he owes 
! to the,/br7«, than to the quaiiij/ of iu» 
liquor. 



BL'RNS — LIFE. 



57 



as the finest dispositions often yield, and the 
imlueuceol' whii;h, when strengthened by habit, 
it is a humiliutia^ truth, tnat the most power- 
ful minds ha\e not been aOie to resist. 

It is the more necessary for men of genius 
to be on their guard against the habitual use of 
wine, because it is apt to steal on them in:ea- 
sibly ; and because the temptation to excess 
u.-uaily presents itself to them in their social 
hours, when they ai3 alive only to warm and 
generous emotions, and when pruoeuce and 
uiuceration are uf.ea coniemued as selh^ibuess 
and timidity. 

it is the more necessary for them to guard 
against excels in the use of wine, because on 
them its fcU'ects are, physically and morally, in 
an especial maii;ier, injurious. In proportion 
lo its stimulaiing luCueuce on the system (on 
which the piea=urable sensations depend), is 
the debility that ensues ; a debility that destroys 
digebtion, and terminates in habitual fever, 
aropsy, Jaundice, paralysis, cr insanity. As the 
aireugih of the body decays, the volition fails ; 
in proportion as the sensations are soothed and 
gratihed, the sensibility increases ; and morbid 
sensibility is the parent of indolence, because, 
while it impairs the regulating power of tbe 
uiiud, it exaggerates all the obstacles to exer- 
tion. Activity, perseverance, and seif-com- 
maiid, become more and more difficult, and the 
gjeat puiposes of utility, patriotism, or of 
lioaourabie ambition, which had occupied tbe 
imagination, die away in fruitless resolutions,- 
or in feeble efib. s. 

lo apply these observations to the subject 
of our memoirs, would be a L»seless as weii as a 
p.iinful task. It :s, indeed, a duty we owe lo 
tile living, not to allow our admiration of great 
genius, or even our pity for its uuhappy des- 
tiny, to conceal or dis^-ui-e its errors. But 
tliere are sentiments of respect, and even of 
tenderness, with wbicli this duty should be 
psrfortned; there is an awful sanctity which 
invests the mansions of the dead ; a>>d let 
those who moralize over the graves of iheir 
contemporaries, reriect wiih humility on their 
own errors, nor forget how soon they may 
themselves require the candour and the sym- 
patuy they are called upon to bestow. 



Soon after the death of Burns, the following 
article appeared in the Dumiries Journal, from 
wbieh it was copied into ihe Edinburgh news- 
piipers, and into various otiier periodical pub- 
lications. It is from the elegant pen of a lady 
already alluded to in the couise of these me- 
moirs,* whose exertions for the family of our 
bard, in the circles of l.te.aure and fa.shion 
in which she moves, nave iloue her so much 

" It is not probable that the late mournful 
event, which is likely to be felt severely in tlie 
1 terary wond, as well as in the circle of pri- 
vate friendship winch surrounded our aamired 
poet, should be unattended wi h the usual pro- 
fusion of posthumous anecdotes, memoirs. &c. 
that commonly spring up at the death ot every 
rare and celebrated personage. 1 shall not at- 
tempt to enlist with tbe numerous corps of bio- 



graphers, who, it is probable, may, without 
rposs.'ssiiig his genius, arrogate to themselves 
the privilege of criticising the character or 
writings of IVlr Burns. * The inspiring man- 
tle' thrown over hini by that tutelary muse 
who tirst found him, like the prophet Elisha, 
' at his plough**-!- has been the portion of few, 
may be the portion of fewer still ; and if it is 
true that men of genius have a claim in their 
literary capacities to the legal right of the Bri- 
tish citizen in a court of justice, that of being 
tried oidy by his peers, ( 1 borrow here an ex- 
press ion I have fi-equently heard Burns himself 
make use of,) Goa forbid I should, any more 
than the generality of other people, assume the 
flaiteriug and peculiar privilege of silting upo 
his jury. But the intimacy of our acqiiain:auce 
tor several years past, may perhaps juslity my 
presenting lo the public a few of those id^sas 
and observations I have had the opportunity 
of forming, and which, to the day that closed 
for ever the scene of his happy qualities and o! 
his errors, 1 have never had ihe smallest cause 
to deviate in, or tu recall. 

" it will be the misfortune of Burns' reputa- 
tion, in the records of literature, not only to 
•future generations and to foreign countries, but 
even with his uaiive .Scotland and a number of 
his contemporaries, that he has been regarded 
as a poet, and uoih. ng bul a poet. It must 
not be supposed tbat I consider this title as a 
trivial one : no person can be more penetrated 
with tbe respect due to the wreath bestowed 
by the muses than myself; and much ceriainlj 
is due to the merit of a self-taught bard, de- 
prived of the advantages of a classical educa- 
tion, and uie intercourre of minds congenial 
to his own. till tbat period of life, when 
his native lire had already blazed forth in all 
Its wiid graces ot genuine simplicity and en- 
ergetic eloquence of sentiment. But the fact 
is, that even when all his honours are yielded 
to hiin. Burns will perhaps be found to move 
iu a sphere less splendid, less dignibed, 
and, even in his own pastoral style, le^s attrac- 
tive, tnan several otaer writers have dune; and 
tbat poetry was (i appeal to all who had the 
advantage of being personally acquainted with 
him) actually not his forie. If others have 
climbed more successfully to tbe heights of PAr. 
nassus, none certainly ever ou'-shone Burns iu 
the charms — the sorcery I would almost call 
it, of fascinating conversation; the spontaneous 
eloquence of social argument, or the unstudied 
poignancy of brilliant repartee. His person/>i 
endo-.vuieuls were perfectly correspondent wit.'-, 
the qualihcations of his mind. His form was 
manly ; his action energy itself ; devoid, in a 
g.eat measure, however, of those graces, of that 
pclish, acquired only 'n the rebnenient of so- 
cieties, where in early life he had not the op- 
portunity to mix; but where, such was tlie 
irresistible power of a 
bim, thougu uis appeal 



+ •' The Poetic genius of my country found 
me, as the prophetic bard Elijah old Elisha — 
at ihe Plojirh ; and threw her inspiring niaut'e 
over me. She bade me smg ihe loves, the joys, 
the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native 









mgue. 



DUMOXD CABIXET LIBRARY. 



i peculia 



r falu 






aod 



axeeL tiu tgure cenaiaW bore tte aulbcu- 
tic icipress ot" hfi; birlh oud origiual slalioii ta 
lite ; It seemed rather mouidsd by nature lor , 
the roogii exercise of agriculture, thaa the 
gentler cultivation of the briUes ieltree. Hi» ^ 
features were stamped with the haru> charac- 
ter of independeuce, and the hrmaeis of con- 
scious, though not arrogaol pre-eminence. I 
believe no man v^as ever gifted witn a larger 
portion of the vivida. vis cnimi ; itie animated 
expressions of his cu'juleaauce were alicost pe- 
culiar to himself. The rapia ligttiiings of his 
e^e were alwaj» tbe harbingers of some flash 

genius, whether ibey darted the tery glancto 
of insulted and indignant siiperioritj, or beamed 
with the inipassioiieu sealimt!)! of fervent and 

improve upuu tha magic of hi» eye ; sonorous, 
replete wita tbe hucst modalaiioas, it alter- 
nately captivatej the ear viilii themelc-dy of 
poetic aujiibei?, tue pcrspi 



seem the temper of his companions took (he 
tiactare frod his own; for br ackDO\v!ed;rfd 
cUsses of objccU, tho*a 



1 the r 



t fervei 



r the 



keenness of satire ^vas, 
IT h ether t© say his Jorte c 



patriotism. 

am almost at - •— --^>.-,. -^ ,-., — ^ 

bis foible; for thocgh nature had eodowed 
him with a portion of the most poiateU excel- 
lence in that * perilous gift, ' he suttcre-l it loo 
oiten to be the vehicle of per.-^ual, and some- 
liuies unfounded ajiimosities. It was not onij 
that Eportiveuess of humour, that ' unwary 
pleasantry. ' which Sterne has described to us 
with touches so coQciliatory ; but the darts of 
ridicule were freijuently directed as the caprice 
of the instant suggested, or the altercations of 
parties or of persons happened to kindle tli« 
restlessness of his spirit into interest or a»«r- 
sion. This was aot, however, onexceptiociably 
the case, his wit (which is no unusual matter 
indeed) had always the start of hj judgment, 
and would lead him to the indulgence of raillery 
uuiforuilj acute, but often unaccompanied by 
the least' desire to wouud. The suppression 
of an arci and fidl pointed bon mot, hom the 
dread of injuring its object, the sage of Zurich 
vcrj properly classes as a rirtue 'only to be 
sought for in the calendar of saints ; if so, 
Burns must not be dealt with uncouscientiously 
for being rather dehcient in it- He paid the 
forfeit of his uiients as dearly as any one could 
do. ' 'Twas no extravagant arithmetic U) say 
of him, as of Yorick, that for »f ery ten jokes 
he got a hundred enemies j" and macb ajiow- 
uiice should be made by a ctndid mind tor the 
splenetic warmth of a »pirit ' which distress 
had often spiled with the vvorld, ' and which, 
unbounded :a its inieUeCtual sallies and pur- 
suits, conunualU "^tperieuced the curljs imposed 

checked by constant disappoiiameals, which 
sat hea»y "on a heart that acknowledged the 
ruling passion of independence, without having 
t-ver been placed beyond the grasp of penury. 
His soul was never languid or inactive, and his 
genius was extinguished only with the last 
sparks of retreating lite. His passions render- 
ed hiiu, according as they discloseil themselves 
iu adeclion or antipathy , the object of enthusi- 
astic attachment, or of decided enmity ; for he 
jios»essed none of that negative insipidity of 
cnaracter, whose love might be regarded with 
Jtiuitifcl-euce, or whose resentment could be 
^ijiisiiiisied with contempt, iu this it tihouid 



itroUable ; and it has been fr«i- 
quentty asserted of biui, that, onsusceptible of 
itlereuce, often bating where be ought to 
e despised, he alternately opened his heart, 
and poured forth all the treasures of his un- 
derstanding to such as were incapable of appre- 
ciating the honiigt, and elevated to the pri^i- 
leges of an adversary, torue who were unuuali- 
ijed in talent, or fay nature, for the honour of 
a contest so distiogiiish^d. 

" it is said that the celebrated Ur Johnson 
professed to 'love a good hater,'— a teaipera- 
nient that had singularly adapted him to cher- 
ish a prepo!,£cssion iu favour of our bard, who 
perhaps fell little short even of the siuly Doc- 
tor in this quaiilication, as long as the disposi- 
tion to iil-wil! continued ; but the fervour of 
his passions was fortunately tempered by their 
versatility. He was seldom, never indeed im- 
placable in his resentments, ar>d sometimes, it 
has been alleged, not inviolably steady in his 
engagements of friendship. Mui:h iuceed has 
been said of his inconstancy and caprice : but 
I am inclined to believe, they originated less 
from a levity of sentiment, than from an im- 
petuosity of feeling, that rendered hitn prompt 
to take umbrage ; and his sensations of pique, 
where he fancied he had discovered the truces 
of nnkiiidness, scorn, or neglect, took their 
measure of asperity from the overflowings of 
the opposite sentiment which preceded them, 
and which seldom failed to regain its ascenden- 
cy in his bosom on the return of calmer reiiec- 
tiou. He was candid and manly in the avowal 
of his errors, and liis avowal was a rcparatioiu 
His native jiarle never forsaking him a mo- 
ment, the value of a frank acknowledgment 
was enhanced tenfold towards a generous mind, 
from its never being attended with servility. 
His miud, organized only for the stronger and 
more acute operation of the passions, was im- 
practicable ts the efforts of superciliousness 
that would have depressed it into humility, 
and equally superior to tbe eacroachmenls of 
renal suggeatious that might have led him into 
the mazes of hypocrisy. 

•' It has been observed, that he wasf^ir from 
averse to the incense of tiatlery, and could re- 
c-ri%e it tempered w ith less delicacy than might 
have been expected, as he seidooj transgressed 
ill that way himself; where he paid a couipli- 
uient, it ui!i;i:t indeed claim the power of iu- 

aii honest tributr troin the warmih und sincerity 
or his hearu it has been sometimes repre- 
i-i-nted, by those \*hoit should seem had a view 
to detract from, though thev could not hope 
wholly to obscure that'native'briUiancy, which 
the powers of this exlrujrdiuary man' had in- 
vanaoly bestowed on every thing that came 
from his lips or pen, that the history of the 
Ayrshire pioughboy was an iu^-enious fiction, 
fabricated lor the purposes of otitaiuiug tho in- 
terests of the great, and enhaacmg the merits 
of what in reEdity required no foil. The Cot- 
ter's Saturday Alight, Tarn o'bhauter, and the 
Alouutdin Daisy, besides a number ii later 
productioiLs, where the maturitv of his genius 
will be readily traced, and wliicn will be given 
to the public as soon as hib frieud^ have coliecwd 



BUtt.N3 — LIFE. 



59 



•nd nrrang«il them, speak sufficiently forthetn- 1 
ielvHS i and had liiey fallen from a hand mac 
it^iuHfd in tkie ratiks of society ihaa tliat of a 
pe&^ar.t, tiiey h«d perhaps t>e*towe*l as unusaal 
a firate (tiere, as even ia the humbler shade of 
rustic itispiratioa from wheace thej really 
sprung. 

*' To the obscure scene of Burns'* education, 
and to tht- laborious, thousch honourable sta- 
tion of rural industry, in which his parentage 
enrolled him. almost every iahabitaut in the 
south of Scotland can give testimony. His 
only surviviiis brother, Gilbert Buras, now 
guides the ploughshare of his forefathers in 
Ayrshire, at a small farm near Ma'ichhne ; >^ 
aid our poet's eldest «on, (a iad of nine years 
of a-re, whose early dispositions already prove 
him ;o be the inheritor of his father's talents as 
•well as indi??ence,) had been destined by his 
familj to the huiuble euiploymenld of the 



Icn 



' That Bums had received no classical edu- 
cation, and vvas acquainted with the Ureeli and 
Romati authors only through the medium of 
traii=latious. is a fact that can be indi»putabiy 



1 ha' 



seldu. 



I at a lo»i> 



r « liters were the subic cts of Ui^cus- 
kVhe« I have pressed him to t^'U me 
why he never took pains to actjuire the Latin. 
in piirticular, a language which his happy me- 
mory ha-J HO soon enabled h{in to be ma*ter of, 
he as«d only to reply with & smile, that he 
already knew all the Latin he desired to learn, 
and that waa, omnia viiicU amor ; a phrase, 
that from nis writings and most favourite pur- 
suits, it should undoubtedly se«m he wa« most 
thoroughly versed in ; but I reailjf believe his 
classical eruduioa extended little, if auy, far- 
ther. 

«• The penchant Mr Ilorae had nniiormly 
acknowledged lor ths fe:>tive pleasure* of lUe 
table, and toward, the fairer and sotler objects 
cf nature's creaiion, has been the rallying point 
■where the attacks of his cenaors, both pious 
and moral, have been directed ; and to these, 
it must be confessed, he showed himself no 
stoic His poetical pieces blend with alternate 
leppiness of description, the frolic spirit of 
l^-e loy-Hi>piring bowl, or melt the heart to the 
teaiier and impastioned sentiments in which 
beaui) alwajs taught him to pour forth his 
own- But who would wish to reprove the 
failing he has consecrated with such lively 
touches of nature ? And where is the rugged 
moralist who will persuade us so far to • cinli 
the genial current of the soul, ' as to regret that 
Ovid ever celebrated his Corinna, or that Ana- 
ereun nuoff beneath iiis vine'? 

•• 1 will not, however, undertake t* be the 
apologist of the irregularities, even of a man 
ol'geaiu*, though 1 believe it is certainly un- 
derstood that genius never was free of irregu- 
larities, as thai their absolution may in a great 
measure be justly claimed, since it u certain 
that the world had continued very stationary 
in its intellectual acquiren&cDts, bad it newer 



• This Tery respectable ana very superior 
man is now removed t» Uumfriesshire. He 
rents lands on the estate of Clo^^eburn, and is a 
t«nant of ttt« venerable Dr Monteith. 
f Thiti desti.<»i<ou is now alierecL 



eiven birth to any bnt men of plain sense. 
iLveou-^a of condcct, and a due regard to the 
decorcmi of the world, have been to rarely 
s€^n to move haod in hand with ffenins, that 
some have pone as far as to say, though there 
I cannot acQQiesce, that they are even incom- 
patible : besides, the frailties that cast their 
shade over superior zrierit, are more couspica- 
ously glaring, than where they are the attend- 
ants of mere mediocrity z il is only on the eem 
we are disturbed to see the dust ; the pebble 
mat be soiled, and we never mind it. The 
eccentric intuitions of f^enius, too often yield 
the soul to the wild eflervesceuce of desires, 
always unbounded, and sometimes equally 
dangerous to the repose of others as fatal to its 
own. No wonder then, if virtue herself be 
sometimes lost in the blaze of kindling anima- 
tion, or that the calm monitions of reason were 
not found sufficient to fetter an imagination, 
which scorned the narrow limits and restrictions 
that would chain it to the level of ordinary 
minds. The child of nature, the child of sen- 
sibility, unbroke to the refrigerative precepts of 
philosophy, untaught always to vanquish the 
passions which were the only source of his 
frequfint errors. Burns makes his own arlless 
apolos-y in terms more forcible, than all the 
argunientatory vindications in the world could 
do, in one of his poems, where he delineates, 
with his usual simplicity, the progress of his 
niiiul, and its first expansion to the lessons of 
the tutelary muse. 

♦ I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
AViId send thee Pleasure's devious waj. 
Misled by Fancy 's meteor ray, 

Br Passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led a^tray, 

Wos light from Heaven. ' 

♦• I haTC already transgressed far beyond the 
boands I had proposed to myself, 'on first 
conimittiiig to paper these sketches, which 
coiiiprplieiid what at least I have been led to 
deem the leading features of Burns 's mind and 
character. A critique either literarv or moral, 
1 do not aim at ; mine is wholly fulfilled, if in 
these paragraphs I have been able to delineate 
any of those strong traits that distinguished 
him, of those talents which raised him from 
the plough, where he passed the bleak morning 
of his life, weaving his rude wreaths of poesy 
with the wild field-flowers that sprung round 
his cottage, to that enviable eminence of literary 
fame, where Scotland will long cherish his 
memory with deliglil and gratitude ; and 
proudly remember, that l>eneath her cold sky, 
a genius was ripened without care or culture, 
that would have done honour to the genial 
temperature of climes better adapted to cher- 
ishing Its germs ; to the perfecting of those 
luxuriances, that warmth of fancy and colour- 
ing, in which he so eminently excelled. 

•♦ From several paragraphs i have notir ed in 
the public pricli, even since the idea of send- 
ing these thither was formed, I find private 
animosities are not jet sabsidwl, and envy has 
not yet done her part. I still trust that honest 
fame will be aflBxed to Burns 's reputation, 
which he will be found to have merited by the 
candid of his countrymen; and where a kin- 
dred bosom is found tbat has been taught fr 
glow with the tires that animated Burns, 



60 



DIA.MOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



should a recolieclion of the inipradences that 
sullied Lis britrhter qualilicatious iiitprpose, le>. 
him remember at the same time the inn)erfcc- 
lion of all human excellence ; and lesve those 
incciisisteucies which akenialelj exalted his 
patuie to the seraph, and sunk it again into 
the man, to the .tribunal which alone caii 
investigate the,lab)rinihs of the human heart — 

• Where they alike in trembling hope repose — 
The boaum cf his father, aud his Cod. ' 

Gratj''s Ekgy. 
"Anuandale, Aug. 7, 17 £6." 



After this account of the life and personal 
character of Burns, it may be eipected that 
gtime iuquiry should be made into iiis liier^jry 
merits. li vvill not however be necessary to 
enter very minutely into this inxestisration. If 
'^uppo- 



e had e 






the n 



e of 



poet than Lunis. 'I hough he has displ; 
great powers of imagination, yet the subjects on 
which he has written, are seldom, if e\er, im- 
aginary ; his poeuis, as well as his letters, niiiy 
be considered as the effusions of his seusibility, 
aiid the transcript of his own musings on the 
real incidents of his humble life, if we add, 
that they also contain most happy delineations 
cf the characters, manners, aiiU scenery that 
presented iheuibelves to his observation, we 
tihall include almost all the subjects of his muse. 
His writings may therefore be regarded as af- 
fording a great part of the data on which our 
account cf his personal character has been 
ibunded ; aiid most of the observations we have 
applied to the man, are applicable, with little 
variation, to the poet. 

'Ihe impression of his birth, and cf hi 



ginal s 

s^je"cu'Tf 
highly 
imagery, i 



life, w^as not more evident 

, than on his poetical 
ideiils which form the 
though some of them 
ig, and susceptible of poetical 
idents in the life of a peasant 



The 



i to disi 



e the 1 



.vliue: 



shade the cir- 
cumstances attending it, which more feeble or 
uiore artiiicial niiads would have endeavoured 
to conceal. The same rudeness and inatien- 
lion appears in the formation of his rhynits, 
vihich are frequently incorrect, while the mea- 
sure in which many of the poems ore written 
has little of the pomp or harmony of modern 
versilicatiou, and is indeed, to an L-nglish ear, 
strange and uncouth. The greater part of his 
earlier poems are written in ti e dialect cf his 
counlrv, which is obscure, if not unintelligible 
to Eiig'lishmen, aud which, though it still ad. 
heres more or less to the speech ot almost every 
Scotchman, all the polite and the ambitious are 
iiow endeavouring to banish from their tongues 
as well as their writings. The use of it in 
composition naturally therefore calls up ideas 



vulgar 






igulai 



are increased by the character of the poet, 
delights to express himself with a simplicity 
'hat approaches to nakedness, and with an un- 
measured energy that often alarms delicacy, 
and sometimes oilends taste. Hence, in ap- 
proaching him, the iirst impression is perhaps 
repulsive: there is an air of coarseness i^bout 



him, which is difficultly reconciled with our 
established notions of poetical excellence. 

As the reader, however, becomes better ac- 
quainted with the poet, the eflects of his pecu- 
liarities lessen, lie perceives iu his poems, 
even on the lowest subjects, expressions of 
sentiment, and delineatious of manners, which 
are highly interesting. The scenery he de- 
scribes is evidently taken from real life ; tha 
clif.raclers he introduces, aud the incidents he 
relates, have the impression of nature and 
truth. His humour, though wild aud unbri- 
dled, is irresistibly amusing, and is sometimes 
heightened in its eflects by the introduction of 
emotions of tenderness, with which genuine 
humour so happily unites. Nor is this the ex- 
tent cf his power. The reader, as he examines 
larther, discovers that the poet is not coiilined 
to the descriptive, the humorous, or the pathe- 
tic: he is found, as occasion oflers, to ris« 
with ease into the terrible aud the sublime. 
i.\ery where lie appears devoid of artilice, 
perfcrn-.ing \\ hat he attempts with little appa- 
itiu etiort ; and impressing on the oflspring of 
his fai.cy Ihe stavip of his undej-ttandiiig. ihe 
reader, capable of forming a just estimate of 
poetical talents, discovers in these circumstan- 
ces marks of uncommon genius, and is willing 
to investigate more minutely its nature and its 
claim to originality. This last point we shall 
examine hrst. 

That Burns had not the advantages of a 
classical education, or of any degree cf acquain- 
tance with the Greek or Roman writers iu their 
original dress, has appeared in the history of 
his life. He acquired, indeed, sntiie know ledge 
of the Flench language, but it does not appear 
that he was ever much conversant in French 
literature, nor is there any evidence of his hav- 
ing derived any of his poetical stories from that 
source. With the English classics he became 
v\ell acquainted iu the course of his life, and 
the eliects of this acquaintance are observable 
ill his latter productions ; but the character aud 
style of his poetry w ere formed very early, and 
the model which he followed, in as lar as he 
can be said to have had one, is to be sought for 
in the works of the poets who h.ive written in 
the bcottish dialect— iu the works of such of 
them, more especially, as ar« familiar to the 
peasantry of hcctlaiid. ijome observations on 
these may form a proper introduction to a more 
particular esamiualiou of the poetry of liuriis. 
The studies of the editor in this dirfciion are 
indeed very recent and very imperfect. It 
would have been imprudent for him to have 
entered on this subject at all, but for the kind- 
ness cf Mr Ramsay of Ochteiure, whose assis- 
tance he is proud to acknowleoge, and to whom 
the readermust ascribe whatever is of any value 
in the following imperfect sketch of literary 
compositions in the bcottish idiom. 

It is a circumstance not a iitile curious, and 
which does not .seem to be satisfactorily ex- 
plained, that in the thirteenth century, the 
language of the two British nations, if at all 
d.Hereiit, difiered only in dialect, the Gaelic in 
the one, like the AVelch and Armcric iu the 
other, being confined to the mountainous dis- 
tricts.* The English under the Edwards, and 



* Historical Essays on Scottish Song, p. SO, 
by Kit K.lson. 



BURNS LIFE. 



61 



liie ScotD under Wallace ;ind Eiuce, spoke ih<» 
same iauguage. We may observe also, thatia 
Scotland the Listovy ascends to a period nearly 
as remote as in England. Barbour and Blind 
liarry, James the First, Dunbar, JJoujrlas, and 
Lindsay, who lived in the fourteenth, hfleenth, 
and sixteenth centuries, were coeval with the 
fathers of poetry in England ; and in tlie 
opinion of ^ir Wharton, not iui'erior to them 
in genius or in composition. Ihough the 
language of the two countries gradually devi- 
ated from each other during this period, jet 
the dirterence on the whole was not consider- 
able ; nor perhaps greater than between the 
diliereut dialects of the difl'erent parts ot Eng- 

At the death of James the Fifth, in 1542, 
the language of Scotland was in a llouiishmg 
condition, wanting only writers in prose equal 
to those in verse. Two circumstances, pro- 
pitious on the whole, operated to prevent this. 
The tirsi was the passion of the Scots for 
composition in Latin ; and the second, the 
accession of James the Sixth to the English 
throne. It may easily be imagined, that if 
Buchanan had devoted his admirable talents, 
even in part, to the cultivation of nis native 
tongue, as was done by tiie revivers of letters 
in Italy, he would have left compositions in 
that language which might have excited other 
men of genius to ha\e followed his example,^ 
and given duration to the language itself. The 
union of the two crowns in the person of 
•lames, overthrew all reasonable expectation of 
this kind. Tiiat monarch, seated on the Eng- 
lish throne, would no longer be addressed 
in the rude dialect in which the Scottish 
clergy had so often insulted his dignity. He 
encouraged Latin or English only, both of 
which he prided himself on writing with puri- 
ty, though he himself never could acquire the 
English pronunciation, but spoke with a Scot- 
tish idiom and intonation to the last. Scots- 
men of talents declined writing in their native 
language, which they knev^ was not acceptable 
to their learned and pedantic monarch ; and at 
a time when national prejudice and enmity 
prevailed to a great degree, they disdained to 
Btudy the niceties of the English tongue, 
tiiough of so much easier acquisition than a 
dead language. Lord Stirling and Drummond 
of Hawthornden, the only Scotsmen who 
wrote poetry in those times, were exceptions. 
They studied the language of England, and 
composed in it with precision and elegance. 
They were however the last of their country- 
men who deserved to be considered as poets 
in that century. The muses of ticotland sunk 
into silence, and did not again raise their voices 
for a period of eighty years. 

To what causes are we to attribute this ex. 
treme depression among a people comparatively 
learned, enterprising, and ingeni ma Y Shall 
we impute it to the fanaticism of the cove- 
nanters, or to the tyranny of the house of Stuart 
after their restoration to the throne ? Doubt- 
less these causes operated, but they seem un- 
equal to account for the effect. In England, 
similar distractions and oppressions took place, 
jet poetry nourished there in a remarkaljie 



During this period, Cowley, imd 
Waller, and Llryden sung, and ^Jilton raised 
' ' ■ lin of unparallelea grandeur. To iL* 
already mentioned, another must ba 
in accounting for the torpor of Scolii?h 
ihicle lor 



n of jrei 



...ploy. 



ThJ civ 



frightened auay ihe Latin muses, and no 
idard bad Leen established of the Scottish 
jue, wli.ch was deviating still farther from 
the pure English idiom. 

The revival of literature in Scotland may 
be dated from the establishment of the union, 
)r rather from the extinction! of the rebellion 
n 1715. Ihe nations being linally incorpo- 
rated, it was clearly seen that their tcnguea 
must in the end incorporate also ; or rathei in- 
deed that the Scottish language must degener- 
ate into a provincial idiom, to be avoided by 
those who would aim at distinction in letters, 
rise to eminence in the united legislature. 
Soon after this, a band of men of genius ap- 
peared, who studied the English classics, and 
imitated their beauties, iu the same manner 
as they studied the classics of Greece and 
Kome. Tliey had admirable models of com- 
position lately presented to them by the 
writers of the reign of (^ueen Anne ; particu- 
larly in the periodical papers published by 
Steele, Addison, and their associated friends, 
which "irculated widely through Scotland, and 
diti'used every where a taste for purity of style 
and sentiment, and for critical disquisition. 
At length, the Scottish writers succeeded in 
English composition, and a union was formed 
of the literary talents, as well as of the legisla- 
tures of the two nations. On this occ'asion 
the poets took the lead. While Henry Home, f 
Dr Wallace, and their learned a'sscciates, 
were only laying in their intellectual stores, 
and studying to clear themselves of their Scot- 
tish idioms, Thomson, Wallet, and Hamilton 
of Bangour, had made their appearance before 
the public, and been enrolled on the list of 
English poets. The writers in prose followed — 
a numerous and powerful band, and poured 
their ample stores into the general stream of 
British literature. Scotland possessed her 
four universities before the accession of James 
to the English throne. Immediately before the 
union, she acquired her parochial schools. 
These establishments combining hap>>' _. to- 
gether, made the elements of knowledge of 
easy acquisition, and presented a direct path, 
by which the ardent student might be carried 
along into the recesses of science or learning 
As civil broils ceased, and faction and preju- 
dice gradually died away, a wider Held wa3 
opened to literary ambition, and the influence 
of the Scottish institutions for instruction, o-r 
the productions of the press, became more an < 
n.ore apparent. 

It seems indeed probable, that the establish- 
ment of the parochial schools produced efiect' 
on the rural muse of Scotland also, whicn 
have not hitherto been suEpectsd, and which, 
though less splendid in their nature, are not 
however to be regarded as trivial, whether we 
consiuer the happiness or the morals of the 
people. 

There is some reason to believe, that the 



DL\MOXD CASIXET LIBRARY. 



er'sinal jnhabitantE of the Hritish isles pos- , 
KSaed A peculiar aod inieresliag speciis of I 
music, which being banished from ihe plains 
by the successive iatJisioa* of the Saxons, 
Danes, and Normans, was preserved with 
the native race, in the wilds of Ireland and 
in the mountains ot Scotland and Wales. 
■J"he Irish, the Scottish, and the Welsh music, 
differ iudeed from eactj other, but the dift'ereace 
niaj be considered as in dialect only, and pro- 
bably produced by tke influence of time, like 
the different dialects of their common lanjuaga. 
If this conjecture be true, the Scottish music 
must be more imaediately of a Highland 
•rigin, and ihe Lowland tunes, though now of 

gcended from the mountains in remote ages. 
Whatever credit may be given to conjeciures, 
evidently Involved in ^eat uncertaiiity, thare 
can be no doubt that the Scottish peasantry 
have been long in posses^ien of a number of 
songs and ballads composed in their native 
dialect, and sung to their native music. The 
subjects of ihesB cotnpositions were such as 
most interested the simple inUabiianls, and in 
'he succession of time varied probably as the 
eonditiua of society varied. During the separa- 
tion and the hostility of the two uatiocs, these 
songs aud ballads, as far as our imperfect do- 
cuments enable us to jud^e, were cuiefly war- 
liiie ; Buch as the Hiuitis of Cheviot, and the 
Bailie •/ Harlow. After the union of the two 
crowns, when a certain degree oi peace and 
tranquillity took place, the rural muse of Scot- 
land breathed in softer accents. " la the 
want of real evidence respecting the history of 
OA.X songs," says Ramsay of Ochtertyre, *• re- 
course may be had to conjeclvue. Ons would 
be di~poi«Kl to think, that the moat beautiful 
of the Scottish tunes were clothed witii new 
■words after the union of the crowns. The in- 
habitants si the borders, who had formerly 
been warriors from choice and hu=bandmen 
from necessity, either quitted the country, or 
were transformed into teal shepherds, easy in 
their circumstances, and satisfied with their 
lou Some sparks of that spirit of chivalry 
for which they are celebrated by Froissart 
remained sufficient to inspire elevation of sen- 
timent and gallaniry towards, the fair sex. The 
familiarity and kindness whicU had long sub- 
sisted between the gentry and the peasantry, 
could not all at once be obliterated, aud ttiis 
connection tended to sweeten rural life. In this 
state of innocence, ease, and tranquillity of 
mind, the love of poetry and music would still 
maintain its ground, though it would naturally 
assume a form congenial to the more peaceful 
state of society, 'fte minstrels, whose metri- 
cal tales used oaee to rouse the borderers, like 
tbe trumpet's sound, had been, by an order of 
the Legislature (1379) classed with rogues and 
vagabonds, and attempted to be suppressed. 
Knox and his disciples influenced the Scottish 
p-.j-.iament, but contended in vain with her 
rural muse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, pro- 
bably on the Banks of tbe Tweed, or eome of 
its tributary streams, one or more original 
geniuses may have arisen, who were destined 
to give a new turn to the taste of their country, 
men. They would see that the events ant 
pursuits which eheqcw private life were thi 
proper subjects for popolar poetry. Love^ 
Nfiici bad formerly heW a divided "sway with 



glory and ambition, beeame now tbe mast«» 
p3t>ion of the soul. To pourJrav in lively and 
iiflicate colours, though with a hasty nand, 
the hopes and fears that acitate the breast of 
the love-sick swam, or forlorn maiden, afford 
ample scope to the rural poet. Love-sougs, of 
wh.ch Tibnllus himself would not have been 
ashamed, might be composed bj an cneducated 
rustic with a slight tincture of letters ; or if in 
these songs the character of the rustic be some- 
times assumed, the truth of character, and the 
language of nature, are preserved. With un- 
affected simplicity aud teuderness, topics ar* 
1, most likely to soften the heart uf a cniel 
coy mistress, ar to regai» a ticHo lover. 
1 in such as are of a melancholy e*..t, a ray 
of hope breaks through, and dispels the deep 
and settled gloom vthich characteriiek !ha 
sweetest of the Uighland luenngt, or »o.:al kirs- 
Nor are these songs all plaintive ; many uf 
them are lively and humorous, and someapptnr 
to us coarse and indelicate. They seem, how- 
ever, genuine descriplious of the manners of an 
energetic and setiueslered people in their hours 
of mirth aud festivity, though in iheir portraits 
some objects are brought into open view, which 
more fastidious painters would have lhr#wn into 

•' A§ those rural poets sung for ansnseraent, 
not for gain, their effusions seldom exceeded a 
love-song, or a ballad of satire or humour, 
which, like the words of the elder minstreU, 
were seldom committed to writing, but trea- 
sured up in the memory of their friends and 
neighbours. Neither known to the learned 
nor'patroniied by the great, tbesa rustic barda 
lived and died in obscurity ; 'and by a strange 
fatality, their story, and even their very names 
have been forgotten.* When proper models 
for pastoral songs were produced, there would 
be no want of imitators. To succeed in tbi« 
species of composition, soundness of under~ 
standing and sensibility of heart were more re- 
quisite than flights of imagination or pomp of 
numbers. Great changes have certainly taken 
place in Scottish song- writing, though we can- 
not trace the steps of this change; and few of 
the pieces admired in Queen Mary's time are 
now to be discovered in modern collections. 
It is possible, though not probable, that the 
music may have remained neatly the same, 
though the words to tbe tunes were entuely 
new-raodeiled."f 

These conjectures are highly ingenious. It 
cannot, however, he presumed, that the state 
of ease and tranquillity described by Mr Rani- 
say took place among the Scottish peasantry 
immediately on the union of tb* two crowns, or 
indeed during the greater part of the seventeenth 
century. The Scottish nation, tbrcngh all 
ranks, was deeply agitated by the civil wars. 



* In the Pepys collectioB, there are a few 
Scottish songs of the last century, but the 
names of the authors are not preserved. 

f ExtrtKl of a klter from Mr Ramtay of 
OcKterUpre $• the Editor, SepU 11, 1799. ;« 
the Bee, Vol. IL p. 201, is a commuuication 
of Mr Ramsay, under the signature ot J. Bun- 
cole, which enters into this subject somewhst 
more at large. In that paper he gives his rea- 
sons for qusstjoniiig the antiquity of many of 
(he ceiehraied Scottish socge. 



I 



BIRN5— LIFE, 



f?3 



«E(i the re^igtcBs persprnMnns which succeeded 
each other in ih«t diswjtr us ptr'oil i it wrs 
not till after the revoiuiioo in I'JbS. and the 
But)sei)ueii( establisbiiipot uf iheir belovta form 
of church Koveramcot, that the pea^-antrv of 
the Lowlaads enjoyed comparative repo&e ; and 
it is gi:ice that period that a great number of 
the most admired Scottish soa^s have been 
prodiK«d, thouirh the tuDe>, to which tbev are 
Eang, are in genera! of vnucb greater antiquitif. 
St is not unreasonable to suppose, that the 
peace and secnrry deri»ed from th« E«voia- 
tioD, aud the Union, prudaced a favourahie 
•liange on the rustic poetry of Scotland ; and 
it can scarcely be doubtfd.'that the institution 
iif parish schools in IbHb", by -which a certain 
legree of instruction wa» dirtused uiiiversaliy 
tmung the peasantry, eontributed to this happj 
eflFecU ' 1 

Soon aft^r this appeared AJlan Ramsay, the 
Scottish Theocritii*. He was born on the 
hi?h nio'.iu;ains that divide Clydesdale and 
Annandale, iu a small hamlet by' the kaoks of 
Glengonar, a stream which descends into the 
Clyde. The ruins of this hamlet are still 
rbovrn to the inquiring traTeller.* lie was 
the ion of a peasant, and probably received 
such instruction as his parish-school bestowed, 
and tiie poverty of his parents admitted. •f' 
Ramsay made his appearance in Edinburgh, 
- in the beginning of the present century, in the 
humble character of an apprentice to a barber i 
he was then fourteen or fifteen years of age. By 
degrees he ac(juired notice for his social dispo- 
sition, and his talent for the composition of 
verses in the Scottish idiom : and, changing 
his profession for that of a bookseller, be 
eecame intimate with many of the literary, as 
well as of the pay and fashionable characters 
af his time. :}: Having published a volume of 
joems of bis own in 1 72 1, which was favourably 
;.eceived, he undertook to make a collection of 
ancient Scottish poems, under the title of the 
Evtr-Gi-een, and was afterwards encouraged 
to present to the world a collection of Scottish 
Bongs. •• From what sources he procured 
them," eays Ramsay of Ochtertyre, " whether 
from tradition or manuscript, is uncertain. 
As in the Ever-Green he madi 



attempts 1 



mproT* 



iginals of hi! 



poems, he probably used still greater 

* See Gimpbell's History of Poetry in. Scot- 
land, p. 185. 

f The father of Mr Ramsay was, it is said, 

workman in the lead-mines of the Earl of 
Hopetoun, at Lead-hills. The workmen as 
those mines at present ore of a very superior 
eharacter to miners in general. They have 
Bnly six hours of labour in the day, and Lave 
rime for reading. They have a common library 
iXipported by contribution, containing several 
'housand volumes. When th^s was instituted, 
i havi not learned. These miners are said to 
je of a very sober and moral character. Allan 
Ramsay, when very jroung, it supposed to bav« 
been a washer of ore in these mines. 

± '• He was coeval with Joseph Mitchell, 
and his clnb of sw;c<7 wits, who, about 1719, 
published a very poor miscellany, to which lit 
Voung, the author of the Mghl Tho:>shts, 
pretised a copy of verses. ' ' Exlrnct of a htler 
From Mr Rumsay oj' OiMertyrv to lh<: tdUor. 



freedom with tae song? and ballads. The 
tru'li cannot, however, be known ou this p<)int. 
till manusor.pi* of the soues primed by him, 
more ancient than thf present ceu'ury sSati b« 
produced, or accsss be obtained to his own 
papers, Lf tiiey are still in existence. To 
several tunes which ei'ber wanted words, or 
had words that were improper or imperfect, 
he or h;s friends adapted verses worthy of the 
nieloCies they accompanied, worthy indeed of 
the golden age. These yerses were perfectly 
inteliiirible to every rustic, yet justly admired 
by ppr,„iis of taste", who reg.irded them as the 
ge.-iuiiie ott'spring of the p^toral muse. In 
some respects, Ramsay had advantages not 
possesseil by poets writing in the Scottish dia- 
lect in our days. Soigs in the diaiect- 
Cnmberland or Lancasiiire, could never be 
popular, because these dialects have never been 
spoken by persons of fashion. But till the 
rmadle of th» present century, every Scotsman, 
from the peer to the peasant, spoke a truly 
Doric language. It is true, the English mo- 
ralists and poets were by this time read by 
every person of condition, und considered ea 
the standards for polite composition. But, as 
national prejudices were still strong, the busy, 
the learned, the gay, and the fair, continued 
to speak their native dialect, and that with an 
elegance and poignancy of which Scotsmen of 
the present day can have no just notion. I am 
old enough to have conversed with Mr Spittal, 
of Leucbat, a scholar, and a man cf fashion, 
who survived all the members of the Union 
Parliament, in which he had a seat. His pro- 
nunciation and phraseology differed as much 
from the common dialect," as the language of 
St James's from that of Ihames Street. Had 
we retained a court and parliament of ouronn. 
tne tongues of the two sister kingdoms would 
indeed "have diflered like the Castilian and 
Portuguese; but eiich would have its own 
classics, not in a single branch, but in tba 
whole circle of literature. 

Ramsay associated with the men of wit 



Persons toe idle or too dissipated to think of 
compositions that required much exertion, 
succeeded very happily in making tender son- 
nets to favourite tunes in compliment to their 
mistresses, and transforming themselves into 
impassioned shepherds, caught the language of 
the characters they assumed. Thus, about 
the year 1731, Robert Crawford of Anchi- 
names, wrote the modern song of Ticeedside,^ 
which has been so much admired. In 1743, 
Sif Gilbert Elliot, the first of car lawyers who 
both spoke and wrote English eiegantly, com- 
posed, in the character o» a love-sick swain, a 
beautiful song, beginning. My sheep i nesected, 
I lost my sheephook, oa the marriaje of his mis- 
ires.<i. Miss Forbes, with Ronald Crawford- 
Aud about twelve vears afterwards, the sister 
of Sir Gilbert ivrote the aiicieid words to the 
tune of the Flotcers of the Forest ; |1 and sap 
posed to allude to the battle of Flowden. In 
spite of the double rhyme, it is a sweet, and 



§ Begin-iing, What beauties does Flora dis' 
close I 

i; Beginning, I ha\x heard a liUing at mtr 



*4 



DIAMOND CAIilNET LiERAUT. 



tbougii in some parts allegorical, a natural 
expression of iiatioual torrow. 'Ihe more 
modern words to the same tune, besiuniisg, 1 
have seeii iht smilins ofjurtut.e begtiilms:, weie 
vritteu long before by ^irs Cockb-iru, a woman 
of great wit, who outlived all the hrst group 
of tiierai I of the present century, all of whom 
■were very fond of her. I was delighted with 
her compauy, though when I saw her, she 
■was very old. Much did she know that is now- 
lost. ' ■ 

In addition to these instances of Scottish 
Eongs, produced in the earlier part of the pre- 
sent century, may be mentioned the ballad of 
Hardihiute, by Lady Wardlaw ; the ballad of 
WiiUatii and Margaret ; and the song entitled 
the Birks of Invermai,; by JJallet ; the love- 
song, beginning. For eier. Fortune, tcUt thou 
prove, producea by the youthful muse of T honi- 
son; and the exquisite pathetic ballad, the 
Braes of Yarrow, by Hamilton of Baugour. 
On the reTJval of letters in Scotland, subse- 
quent to the Union, a very general taste seems 
to have prevailed for the national songs and 
music. « ' For many years, " say s Mr Ramsay, 
*' the singing of songs was the great delight 
of the higher and niiadle order of the people, 
IS well as of the peasantry ; and though a taste 
for Italian music has interfered with this 
amusement, it is still very prevalent. Between 
forty and hity years ago, the common people 
Were not only exceedingly fond of songs and 
ballads, but of metrical history. Oiten have I, 
in my cheerful morn of youth, listened to them 
with delight, when reading or reciting the ex- 
ploits of \\ allace and Bruce against the Uruih- 
roJis. Lord Hailes was ■wont to call Blind 
Harry their Bitie, he being their great favour- 
ite next the Scriptures, \Vhen, therefore, one 
in the vale of life lelt the trst emotion of ge- 
nius, he wanted not mccels sui gtiitris. Bet 
though the seeds of poetry were scattered with 
a plentiful hand among the Scottish peabautry. 
the product was probably like that of pears and 
apples — of a ihou^ajid that sprung up, nine 
u tfty are so bad as to set the teeth 



1 edge 



=able a 



useful i and the rest of an exquisite flavoar. 
Allan Rf.msay and Burns are icilcliiigs of this 
last description. They had the example of the' 
elder Scottish poets ; they ■were not without 
the aid of the best English writers ; and, v^hat 
■?\as of still more importance, they v\ere no 
strangers to the book of nature, and to the book 
of God. ' ' 

From this general ■view, it is apparent that 
Allan Ramsay may be considered as in a great 
measure the re\iver of the rural poetry of his 
country. His coUection of ancient Scottish 
poems, under the name of The Eier-G-reen, 
'•is collection of Scottish songs, and his own 
poems, the principal of which is the Gentle 
ahepherd, have been universally read among 
the peasantry of his country, and have in some 
degree superseded the adventures of Bruce and 
Wallace, as recorded by Barbour and Blind 
Harry. Burns wras well acquainted with all of 
these. He had also before him the poems of 
f ergusscn in the Scottish dialect, which have 
teen produced in our own times, and of which 
it will be necessary to give a short account 

L'ergusson was born of parents who had it in 
tfaeir pu wer to procure him a fberal education, a 
tucuaistauce, honever, >>hicb iu Scoiaud im- 



plies no very high rank n soripty. From a well 
untlen and appareutiy authentic account o» h.s 
iile,> v\e learn that he spent six years at the 
schools of Edinburgh and Dundee, and several 
years at the Univer=iliei> of Edinburgh and St 
Aiiarew's. It appears that he was at one time 
dt-suned for the Sco.tish Church; but as he 
advanced towards manhood, he renounced that 
intention, and at Edinburgh entered the o&ce 
of a writer to the signet, a title which desig 
i;ates a separate and higher order of Scottish 
atiorueys. Fergusson had sensibility of mii.d, 
a warm and generous heart, and talents lor 
society of the most attractive kind, lo such a 
nsan no sitcation could be more dangerous than 
that in which he was paced, 'ihe excesses 
into which he was led, impaired his teeLle 
constitution, and he sunk ui.der hem in tiie 
mtnth of October, 177-i, in his Sod cr 24ih 
year. Burns was not Kccuainted with the 
poems of this youthful ger.ii.a when he himseif 
bejan to vsrite poetry ; and when he lirst saw 
them, he had renounced the muses. But w hile 
he resided io the town of Irvine, meeting w ith 
Fei-guston'i iicoUuh Pcevis, he iuformsus that 
he •' strung his lyre anew with emulatiiig vi 
gour. " Icuchtd by the sympathy origiu;,ting 
iu kindred genius, and in the lorebodingh of 
similar fortune. Burns regarded I-er^^usson 
with a partial and an ariectionaie admiration. 
Over his grave he erected a monument, as has 
already been mentioned ; and his poems he hae, 
in several instances, maue the subjects of his 

From this nccount of the Scottish poeii.s 
knov\n to Burns, (hose who are acquaii.ud 
with them will see they are chietiy Lun.or 
cus or pathetic : and under one or other c f 
these descriptions most of his own poems will 
class. Let us compare him with his predeces- 
sors under each of these points of view, fand 
close cur examination with a lew general o1j- 

It has frequently been observed, that Scotland 
has produced, comparatively speakiiig, lew 
writers who have excelled in humour. Lut 
this observation is true only when applied to 
those who have continued to reside in their ow n 
country, and ha\e conlined themselves to ctiii- 
position in pure English ; and in these circum- 
stances It admits of an easy explanation. 'Ihe 
Scottish poets, who have written in the dialect 
of Scotland, have been at all times remarkable 
for dwelling on subjects of humour, in which 
iuceed some of them have exceUed. It wouid 
be easy to show, that the dialect of Scotland 
having become provincial, is now scarcely suit- 
ed to the more elevated kinds of poetry. If we 
may believe that the poem of Christis Kirk of 
llw Crcue ■was written by James the First f of 



* In the Supplement to the Enci/clopcedia 
ErHaimica. See aiso, Cairpied's liUroauctton 
(o the History ofi'oeiry iit Scotland, p. 288. 

f Kotwilhstaiiding the evidence produced on 
this subject by Mr Tytler, the Editor ackiiow- 
'S his being somewhat of a sceptic on this 
;, Sir DaTid Dalrympie inclines «o the 
opinion that it -was wri'tten by his n.ccessor 
he Fifth. Ihere are oiflicuities at- 



Slib^ 



r this 



1 also. But ( 



of Scottish Auliquities the Lditor^is a^ 

'Uipeient juUf 



BUR^S.. 

SiHHland, this accomplished monarch, \^ho 
had received an English education under the 
directiou of Henry the Fourth, and •who bore 
arms under his gallant successor, gave the 
model on which the greater part of the 
humorous productions of the rustic luuse of 
ycotland had been formed. Christis Eirk 
of the Grene was reprinted by Ramsay, 
bomewhat modernized in the orthography, 
and two cantos were added by him in which 
he attempts to carry on the design. Hence 
the poem of Ring Ja'mes is usually printed in 
Bamsay 's works. The royal bard describes, 
in the first canto, a rustic dance, and after- 
wards a contention in archery, ending in an 
aftray. Ramsay relates the restoration of con- 
cord, and the renewal of the rural sports with 
the humours of a country wedding. Though 
e%ch of the poets describes the mauners of his 
respective age, yet in the whole piece there is 
a very sufficient uniformity ; a striking proof 
of the identity of character in the Scottish 
peasantry at the two periods, distant from 
each other three hundred years. ,It is an hon- 
ourable distinction to this body of men, that 
their character and manners, very little em- 
bellished, have been found to be susceptible of 
an amusing and interesting species of poetry; 
and it must appear not a little curious, that the 
single nation of modern Europe which pos- 
sesses an original poetry, should have re- 
ceived the model, followed by their rustic bards, 
from the monarch on the throne. 

The two additional cantos to Ckj-istis Kirk 
of the Grene, written by Ramsay, though ob- 
jectionable in point of delicacy, are among the 
happiest of his productions. His chief excel- 
lence, indeed, lay in the description of rural 
characters, incidents, and scenery ; for he did 
not possess any very high powers either of 
imagination or of understanding. He was 
•well acquainted with the peasantry of Scot- 
land, their lives, and opinions. The subject 
was in a great measure new ; his talents were 
equal to the subject ; and he has shown that it 
may be happily adapted to pastoral poetry. 
In his GerUle Slicpherd, the characters are de- 
lineations from nature, the descriptive parts 
are in the genuine style of beautiful simplicity, 
■.he passions and atfections of rural life are 
fitiely pourtrayed, and the heart is pleasingly 
interested in the happiness that is bestowed on 
innocence and virtue. Throughout the whole 
there is an air of reality -which the most care- 
less reader cannot but perceive ; and in fact no 
poem ever perhaps acquired so high a reputa- 



LIFE. 



65 



ruth r 



ived £ 



little 



mbel- 



lishment from the imagination. In his pasto- 
ral songs, and his rural tales, Ramsay appears 
to less advantage, indeed, but still with con- 
siderable attraction. The story of the Monk 
and the^.MUler's Wife, though somewhat licen- 
tious, may rank with the happiest productions 
of Prior or La Fontaine. But when he at- 
tempts subjects from higher life, and aims at 
■ pure English composition, he is feeble and un- 
interesting, and seldom even reaches mediocri- 
ty.* Neither are his familiar epistles and el- 
egies in the Scottish dialect entitled to much 
approbation. Thoufrh Fergusson had higher 
powTs of imagination than Ramsay, his 



•_Soe 27«: Morning Litervia 



genius was not of the nighest order; nor did 
his learnins, which was considerable, improve 
his genius." His poems written in pure Eng- 
lisb, in which he orten follows classical mo- 
dels, though superior to the English poems ef 
Ramsay, seldom rise above mediocrity ; but in 
those composed in the Scottish dialect he is 
often very successful. He was, in general, 
however, less happy than Ramsay in the sub- 
jects of his muse. As he spent the greater pai ■ 
of his life in Edinburgh, and wrote for his 
amusement in the intervals of business or dis 
sipation, his Scottish poems are chiefly found- 
ed on the incidents of a town life, which, 
though they are not susceptible of humour, df 
not admit of those delineations of scenery and 
manners, which vivify the rural poetry of 
Ramsay, and which so agreeally amuse the 
fancy and interest the heart. 'J he town ec- 
logues of Fergusson, if we may so denominatt. 
them, are however faithful to nature, and 
often distinguished by a very happy vein oi 
humour. His poems entitled The Daft Days, 
T/ie King's Birth-day in Edinburgh, Leitf 
Races, and The Haliou, Fair, will jiistify this 
character. In these, particularly in the" last, 
he imitated Christis Kirk of the Grene, as 
Ramsay had done before him. His Addr\ss to 
the 2'ron-kirk Bell is an exquisite piece of hu- 
mour, which Burns has scai-cely excelled. la 
appreciating the genius of Fergusson, it ought 
to be recollected, that his poems are the care- 
less etlusions of an irregular though amiable 
young man, who wrote for tlie periodical pa- 
pers of the day, and who died in early youth. 
Had his life been prolonged under happier cir- 
cumstances of fortune, he would probably have 

have excelled in rural poetry, for though liis 
professed pastorals on the established Sicilian 
model, are stale and uninteresting, The Far- 
niir's lii^le,'\' which may Le considered as a 
Scottish pastoral, is the happiest of all his 
productions, and certainly was the archetype 
of the Cotter's Saturcay Night. Fergusson, 
and more especially Burns, have shovvn, that 
the character and manners of the peasantry ot" 
Scotland, of the present times, are as well 
adapted to poetry, as in the days of Ramsay, 
or of the author of Christis Kirk of the 

The humour of Burns is of a richer vein than 
that of Ramsay or Fergusson, both of whom, 
as he himself informs ng» he had "frequently 
in his eye, but rather with a view to kindle at 
their flame, than to servile imitation." His 
descriptive powers, -whether the objects on 
which they are employed be comic or serious, 
animate or inanimate, ere of the highest or- 
der. —A superiority of this kind is essential to 
every species of poetical excellence. In one of 
his earlier poems his plan seems to be to incul- 
cate a lesson of contentment on the lower clas- 
ses of society, by showing that their superiors 
are neither much better nor happier than them- 
selves ; and this he chooses to execute ii the 
form of a dialogue between two dogs. He in- 
troduces this dinlogue by an account of the 
persons and characters of the speakers. The 
first, whom he has named Ccesar, is a dog 
of condition:— 



* The farmer's fire-side. 



DIAMONTJ CABIXE: LIBRARY. 



•• At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho* e'er sae duddie. 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see Lira, 
And stroan't on slaties an' hillocki tci' him 

The p^her, Lnaih, is a " ploughman's collie, 
but a iHT of a good heart and a sound uudt 
etauding. 

•• Sis honest, sonsie, bawsent face. 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place ; 
His breast was white, his towsie back, 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; - 

His gaweie tail, wi' upicar^ curl. 
Bung o'er his hurdles wi' c swirl. " 

Never were twa dogs so exquisitely deline 
ted. Their gambols before they sit down 
moralize, are described with an equal degree 
happiness; and through the whole dialogu 
the character, as well as the different condili 
of (he two speakers, is kept in view. T 
speech of Luaih, in which he enumerates the 
comforts of the poor, gives the following ac- 
count of their uierriineut ou the tirst daj of llie 



'♦ That merry day the year begins. 
They bar the door on frosty winds t\ 
The nappy reeks wi* mantling ream, ^ 
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; V 

The lumin pipe, and sneeshin' mill. 
Are handed round wi' right guid-will ; ' 
The canty auld folks crackin crouse, 
The young aoes rantin thro' the house— 
jVly heart has been sae fain Co see them. 
That I /or joy hae bar kit wi' them. " 

Of all the animals who have moralized on 
human affairs since the days of ^Esop, the dog 
seetns best entitled to this privilege, as well 
from bis superior sagacity, as from his being, 
more than any ether, the friend and associate 
ot man. The dogs of Burns, excepting in 
their talent for moralizing, are dowriright 
do?s ; and not like the horses of Swift, or the 
Hhid and Panther of Drjden, men ia the 
shape of brutes. It is this circumstance ihat 
heightens the humour of the dialogue. The 
«'twa dogs" are constantly kept before our 
eyes, and the contrast between tbeir form and 
character as do^s, and the sagacity of their 
conversation, heightens the humour, and deep- 
eiiS the impression of the poet's satire. Though 
in this poem the chief excellence may be coa- 
■idered as hnmour, yet great talents are dis- 
played in its composition ; the happiest powers 
of description and the deepest insight into the 
human hearL* It is ieldoin, however, that 



* When this poem first appeared, it was 
thought by some very sarprising, that a peasant 
who had not an opportunity of associating even 
witb a simple gentleman, should have been 
able to portray the character of high-life with 
euoh accuracy. And when it was recollected 
that he bad probabl; been at the races of Ayr, 



the humour of Burns appears in so simple a 
form. The liveliness of his sensibility fre- 
quently impels him to intrtKluce into subjects of 
humour, emotions of tenderness or of pity; 
and, where occasion admits, he is sometimes 
carried on to exert the higher powers of imagi- 
nation. In such instances he leaves the society 
of Ramsay and of Fergusson. and associates 
himself with the masters of English poetry, 
whose language he frequently assumes. 

Of the union of tenderness and humonr, ex 
amples may be found in The Death and Dt/ins, 
Words oj poor Mailic, in The auld Farmer'* 
New-Year's Morning Salutation to his Mar» 
Maggie, and ia many of his other poems. The 
praise of whisky is a favourite subject with 
Burns. To this he dedicates his poem of 
Scotch Drink. After mentioning its cheering 
influence in a variety of situations, he describes, 
with sing^)a^ liveliness and power of fancy, 
its stimulaiiug efi'ects on the blacksmith worko 
ing at his fo^ge » 

•• Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel. 
Brings hard owre-hip, wi' sturdy wheel 

The strong fore-hammer. 
Till block an' studdie ring nnd reel. 

Wi' dinsome clamour. " 



On another occasion, t choosing to «xa1t 
whi>ky above wine, he introduces acomparisac 
between the natives of more genial climes, to 
whom the vine furnishei their beverage, ai.ti 
his own countrymen who drink the spirit o\ 
malt. The description of the Scotckoian u 
humorons i 

*' Bat bring a Scotsman frae his hil 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,; 
Say, such is royal George's will. 

An' there's the foe ; 
He has cae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. " 



♦Naecanld, faint-hearted doubtings teaze himf 
Death comee— wi' fearless eve he sees him : 
Wi* bluidy band a welcome gies him. 

And when he fa's. 
His latest draught o' breathing lea'es hia 

In faint huzzas. " 

Again, however, he sinks into humonr, aiiC 
concludes the poem with the following most 
laughable, but most irreverent apostrophe i 



where nobility as well as gentry are to be seen, 
it was concluded that the race-ground had bee« 
the held of his observation. This was saga- 
enough ; but it did not require such iu- 
tion to inform Burns, that human nature 
seutiallj the same in the high and the 
low ; and a genius which comprehends the 
' iman mind, easily comprehends the accideno 
1 varieties introduced by situation. 
+ The Anthor't Earnest Cry and Praytr to 
the Scotch Representatives in ParliametU, 
X Of whi»lf|.^ 



BURNS. -LIFE. 



87 



•• Scotland, my aulH, respected mitber ! 
Tho' whiles ye moislifj your leather. 
Till where yoa sit, au craps o' heather. 

Ye tine your dam ; 
Freedom and Whhki/ gang thegither. 

Talc' ali'your dram I" 

Of this union of humour, with the higher 
powers of imagination, instances may be found 
in the poem entitled Death, and Dr Hornbook, 
and iu almost every stanza of the Address to 
the De'U, one of the happiest of his produc- 
tions. After reproaching this terrible being 
with all his "doings" aud migdeeds, in the 

urse of which he passes through a series 
^.of Scottish superstitions, and rises at times into 
a high strain of poetry ; he concludes this ad- 
dress, delivered in a tone of great familiarity, 
not altogether unmixed with apprehension, in 
the following words : 

• But, fare ye weel, anld Nickie-ben 1 
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' I 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake— 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den 

Ev'n for your sake I 

Humour and tenderness are here so happily 
intermixed, that it ig impossible to say which 
preponderates. 

Fergusson wrote a dialogue between the 
Causeway and the Plaiiistones * of Edinburgh. 
This probably suggested to Burns his dialogue 
between the Old and New Bridge over the 
river Ayr. The nature of such subjects requirei 
that they shall be treated humorously, and 
Fergusson has attempted nothing beyond this. 
Though the Cameway and the Flainstones talk 
together, no attempt is made to personify the 
speakers. A '* cadie"f heard the conversa- 
tion and reported it to the poet. 

In the dialogue between the Brigs of Ayr, 
Burns himself is the auditor, and the time and 
occasion on which it occurred is related with 
great circumstantiality. Tha poet, "pressed 
b» care, " or " inspired by whim, " had left 
his bed in the town of Ayr, and wandered out 
alone in the darkness and solitude of a winter 
night, to the mouth of the river, where the 
stillness was interrupted only by the rush- 
ing sound of the influx of the tide. It was 
after midnight. The Dungeon-clock ± had 
struck two, and the sonnd had been repeated 
by Wallace- Tower, t All else was hushed. 
The moon shone brightly, and 

** Tlie chilly frost, beneath the silver beam. 
Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering 
stream. " 

In this situation, the listening bard hears the 
•• clanging sugh" of wings moving through 
the air, aud speedily he perceives two beings, 
reared, the one on the Old, the other on the 
New Bridge, whose form and attire he 
describes, and whose conversation with each 
other he rehearses. These genii enter into a 
comparison of the respective edifices over 
which they preside, and afterwards, as is 






usual between the old an y 
modern characters and manners with those 
past times. They diiier, as may be expecttil, 
and taunt and scold each other In broad 
Scotch. This conversation, which is cer- 
tainly humorous, may be considered as tht 
proper business of the poem. As the debate 
runs high, and threatens serious consequences, 
all at once it is interrupted by a new scene of 
wonders. 



— *• all before their tight 



A fairy train appear'd in order bright ; 
Adown the glittering stream they featly danced; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses 

They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat. 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet } 
IVhile arts of miii»lrelsy among them runs'. 
And 6oal-«oiu>bled Bards heroic ditties sung 



" The GeniBS of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable chief, advanced in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown 'd, 
Uis manly leg with garter tangle bound. ' 

Next follow a number of other allegorica, 
beings, among whom are the four seaiious, 
Uural Joy, Plenty, Hospitality, and Courage. 

" Benevolence, with mild benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow 'rs of Stair | 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode. 
From simple Catrine, their long-loved abode ; 
Last, white-robed Psace, crown 'd with a 

hazel wreath. 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instrument of Death | 
At sight ol' whom our Sprites forgat their kind» 

ling wrath." 

This poem, irregular and imperfect as it is, 
displays various aiid powerful talents, and 
may serve to illustrate the genius of Burns. In 
particular, it aftbrds a striking instance of his 
being carried beyond his origiuai purpose by 
the powers of imagination. 

In Fergusson 's poem, the Plcinstones and 
Causemay contrast the characters of the differ- 
ent persons who walked upon them. Burns 
probably conceived, that, by a dialogue be- 
tween the Old and New Bridge, he might 

modern manners iu the town of Ayr. Such a 
dialogue could only be supposed to pass in the 
stillaess of night ; and this led our poet into a 
description of a midnight scene, which excited 
in a high degree the powers of his imagina- 
tion. During the whole dialogue the scenery 
is present to his fancy, and at length it sug- 
gests to him a feiry dance of aerial beings, 
under the beams of the moon, by which the 
wrath of the Genii of the Bngs oj Ayr is ap- 
peased. 

Incongruous as the different parts of this 
poem are, it is not an incongruity that dis- 
pleases ; and we have only to regret that tiia 
poet did not bestow a little pains in making tha 
hgures more correct, aud iu smoothing the 

The epistles of Barns, rn which may be ia. 
1 eluded his Di-diccUum lo G. U. Es%. discoYor, 



6S 



D1A.AI0>-D CAEIXET LIBRARY 



like his other writinsrs, the powers of a supe- 
rior understanding. Thej display deep insight 
into humaa nature, a gay and happy strain of 
reflection, great independence of sentiment, 
and generosity of heart- It is to be regretted, 
that in his Holy Fair, and in some of his other 
poems, his humour degenerates into personal 
satire, and is not sufficiently guarded in other 
respects. The Ealioween of Burns is free 
from every objection of this sort. It is inter- 
esting not merely from its humorous descrip- 
tion of manners, but as it records the spells 
and charms used on the celebration of a festi- 
val, now, even in Scotland, falling into neglect, 
but -which was once observed over the greater 
part of Britain and Ireland.* These charms 
are supposed to afford an insight into futurity, 
especially on the subject of marriage, the most 
interesting event of rural life. In the Hal- 
loireen, a female, in performing one of the 
spells, has occasion to go out by moonlight to 
dip her shift-sleeve into a stream running to- 
uxirds the South, It was not necessary for 
Burns to give a description of this stream. But 
it was the character of his ardent mind to pour 
forth not merely what the occasion required, 
but -what it aumitted ; and the temptation to 
describe so beautiful a natural object by moon- 
light, was not to be resisted — 

" Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays. 

As through the glen it wimplet : 
W'hyles round the rocky scaur it strays : 

M hyles in a v^iel it dimplet ; 
\Miyles glitter 'd to the nightly rays, 

■\Vi' bickering dancing dazzle ; 
\Miyles cookit underneath the braes. 

Beneath the spreauing hazle. 

Unseen that aighU 

Those -who understand the Scottish dialect 
■will allow this to be one of the finest instances 
of description which the records of poetry af- 
ford. — I'hough of a very different nature, it 
may be compared, in point of excellence, with 
Thomson's description of a river swollen by 
the rains of winter, bursting through the 
streights that contiiie its torrent, "boiling, 
wheeling, foiraing, and thundering along, "f 

In pastoral, or, to speak more correctly, in 
rnral poetry o: a serious nature. Burns excelled 
equally as in that of a humorous kind, and, 
using less of the Scottish dialect in his serious 
poems, he becomes more generally intelligible. 
It is difficult to decide whether the Address to a 
Mouse tehose nest icas turned up uriih the plough, 
should be considered as serious or comic. Be 
this as it may, the poem is one of the happiest 
and most finished of his productions. If we 
smile at the " bickering brattle" of this little 
flying animal, it is a smile of tenderness and 
pity. The descriptive part is admirable : the 
moral reflections beautiful, and arising directly 
oat of the occasion ; and in the conclusion there 
is a deep melancholy, a sentiment of doubt and 
dread, that arises to the sublime. Ihe Address 
'o a Alountain Dajsi/ turned dovrn u:ith ihe 
plough, is a poem of the same nature, though 
eomewhat inferior in point of originality, as 



* la Ireland it is stiU celebrated, 
quite in disuse in Wales. 

t See Thomson's WiiUer. 



well as in the interest produced. To extract 
out of incidents so common, and seemingly so 
trivial as these, so fine a train of sentiment and 
imagery, is the surest proof, as well as the most 
brilliant triumph, of original genius. The 
Vision, in two cantos, from which a beautiful 
extract is taken by Mr Mackenzie, in the 97th 
number of the Lounger, is a poem of great and 
various excellence. The opening, in which the 
poet describes his own state of mind, retirinjr 
in the evening, wearied, from the labours cf 
the day, to moralize on his conduct and pro- 
spectsj is truly interesting. The chamber, if 
we may so term it, in which he sits down to 
muse, is an exquisite painting : 

« ' There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
1 sat and eyed the spewing reek. 
That till'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek 

That auld clay biggin' ; 
An ' beard the restless rattons squeak 
About the riggin. " 

To reconcile to cur imagination the entrance 
of an aerial being into a mansion of this kinc, 
required the powers of Burns — he, however, 
succeeds. Coila enters, and her countenance, 
attitude, and dress, unlike those of other spir- 
itual beings, are distinctly portrayed. To tlie 
painting on her mantle, on which is depicted 
the most striking scenery, as well as the most 
distinguished characters, of his naiive country, 
some exceptions may be made. The mantle ot 
Coila, like the cup of Thyrsis,± and the shield 
of AchLlies, is too much crowded with figures, 
and some of the objects represented upon it are 
scarcely admissible, according to the principle? 
of design. The generous temperament of Burns 
led him into these exuberances. In his second 
edition he enlarged the number of figures origi- 
nally introduced, that he might include objects 
to which he was attached by sentiments of af- 
fection, gratitude, or patriotism. The secoi.d 
Duan, or canto of this poem, in which Coila 
describes her own nature and occupations, par- 
ticularly her superintendance of his infant gen- 
ius, and Lu which she reconciles him to the char- 
acter of a bard, is an elevated and solemn strain 
of poetry, ranking in all respects, excepting the 
harmony of numbers, with the higher prodiic 
tions of the English mase. The concluding 
stanza, compared with that already quoted, 
will show to what a height Burns rises in th;9 
poem, from the point at which he sets out : — _ 

"And If ear ikou this— she solemn said. 
And bound the hclli/ round my head ; 
The polish 'a leaves, and berries red. 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fltd 

Inflight away. ' 

In various poems Barns has exhibited the 
picture of a miud under the deep impression of 
real sorrow. The Lament, the Ode to Ruin, 
Despondency, and VTiJiter, a Dirge, are of this 
character. In the first of these poems, the 
eighth stanza, which describes a sleepless night 
from anguish of mind, is particularly striking. 
Burns often indulged in those melancholy views 
of the nature and condition of man, which ara 



:;: See the ^nUylUvn of Theocritaa 



BURNS — LIFE. 



69 



go congenial to the temperament of sensibility. 
'jbe poem entitled Alan teas made to nw.nu, 
Bflbrds an instance of this Isind, and I'ka Win- 
ir Kight is of tiie same description. The 
iast is highly characteristic, both of the tem- 
per of mind, and of the condition of Burns. 
It begins with a description of a dreadful storm 
oil a night in winter. The poet represents 
himself as lying in bed and listening to its 
howling. In this situation, he naturally turns 
bis thoughts to the ourie * Cattle, and the 
»;7/^ f aticep, exposed to all (he violence of 
the tempest. Having lamented their fate, he 
proceeds in the following : 

Ilk happing bird — wee helpless thing I 
That in the uierry months o' spring 
Delighted me to hear thee sing. 

What comes o' thee? 
"VVhare wilt tliou cow 'r thy chitiering wing. 

An' close thy e'e ?" 

Other reflections of the same nature occur to 
his mind; and as the midnight moon, " muf- 
lled with clouds," casts her dreary light on 
his window, thoughts of a darker and more 
n)elancholy nature crowd upon him. In this 
state of mind, he hears a \oice pouring through 
the gloom, a solemn and plaintive strain of 
rellectioii. The mourner couipiires the fury of 
the elements with that of man to his brotlier 
man, and tiuds the former light in the bal- 



•' See stern Oppression's iron grip. 
Or mad Ambition's gory hand. 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip. 
Woe, want, and murder, o'er the laud. " 

He pursues this train of reflection through a 
variety of particulars, in the course of v.iiich 
I he introduces the following animated apos- 
; trophe : 

•• O ve ! who, sunk in beds of down, 
f'eel not a want but what yoLiiselNes create. 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched tale. 

Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
Ill-satisfied keen iS'ature's clam'rous call. 

Stretch 'd on his straw he lays him down to 

W bile thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 
Cbill o'er his slumbers piles the drifly 

The strain of sentiment which runs through 
this poem is noble, though the esecution is 
unequal, and the versilication is defective. 

Among the serious poems of Hums, The 
Cotter's Hatuidai/ JXigkt is perhaps entitled to 
the first rank. The Farmtrs Ingle of Fer- 
guss'jTi evidently suggested the plan of this 
poem, as has been already mentioned ; but after 
the plan was formed. Burns trusted entirely 
to bis own powers for the execution. Fergus- 
son's poem is certainly very beautiful. It has 
all the charms which depend on rural charac- 
s happily portrayed, and ex- 



* Ourie, out-lying, Ourie Cattle, Cattle 
that are unhoused all winter. 

+ Hilty is in this, as in oiber places, a term 
of comj^assion and endearment. 



hibited under circumstances highly grateful lo 
the imagination. 2'he Fanner's Ingle begins 
with describing the return of evening, 'ihe 
toils of the day are over, and the farmer retires 
to his comfortable tire-side. The reception 
which he and his men-servants receive from 
the careful house-wife, is pleasingly described. 
After their supper is over, they begin to talk 
on the rural events of the day. 

" 'Bout kirk and market eke their taleg gaeon. 

How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his 

bride ; 

And there how Marion, for a bastard son, 

Upon the cutty stool was forced to ride. 

The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to 

Tlie " Guidame " is next introdueea as 
forming a circle round the tire, in the midst of 
her grand-children, and while she spins from 
the rock, and the spindle plays on her "russet 
lap, " she is relating to the young ones tales of 
witches and ghosts. The poet exclaims, 

' ' O mock na this, my friends ! but ratiset 
mourn. 
Ye in life's brawest spring wi' rea£oa 

W^i'eild our idle fancies a' return. 

And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly 

The mind's aye cradled when the grave is 



In the meantime the farmer, wearied with 
the fatigues of the day, stretches himself at 
length on the settle, a sort of rustic couch, 
which extends on one side of the lire, and the 
cat and house-dog leap upon it to receive his 
ciiresses. Here, resting at his ease, he gives 
his directions to his men-servants for the suc- 
ceeding day. The housewife follows his ex- 
ample, and gives her orders to the maidens. 
By degrees the oil in the cruise begins to fail ; 
tlie lire runs low : sleep steals on his rustic 
group ; and they move oft' to enjoy their peace- 
ful slumbers. The poet concluues by bestow- 
ing his blessing on the "husbandman and all 
his tribe. " 

This IS an original and truly interesting pas- 
toral. It possesses every thing required in 
tills species of composition. We might have 
perhaps said, every thing that it admits, had 
not Burns written his Cutter's tiaturdau 
Night. ^ 

The cottager returning from his labours, has 
no servants to accompany him, to pjirtake of 
his fare, or to recei\e h's instructions. The 
circle which he joins, is composed of his wife 
and children only ; and if it admits of less va- 
riety, it affords an opportunity for represent- 
ing scenes that more strongly' interest the af- 
fections. The younger children running to 
meet him, and clambering round his knee; 
the elder, returning from their weekly labours 
with the neighbouring farmers, dutifully de- 
positing their little gains with their parents, 
uad receiving their father's blessing and in- 
structions ; the incidents of the courtship o« 
Jenny, their eldest daughter, " woman 
grown," are circumstances of the most inte- 
resting kind, which are most happily deliiier.t- 
ed ; au'l after llitiv frugal supper, the repr*- 



70 



DLA.MOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



•entalion of these humbler cottagers ronning a 
wider uircle rouud their hefu-th, aud uniting io 
the worship of God, is a picture tnemost deep- 
ly alisctiug of any which the rural muse has 
ever presented to the view. Burns was adnifr- 
abl; adapted to ihh delineation. Like all men 
of geuius he was of the temperament of devo- 
tion, and the powers of memory co-operated in 
this instance \«ith the sensibility of his heart, 
and the fervour of his imagination.* I'he 
Cotter's Saturday Night is tender and moral, 
fc solemn and devotional, and rises at length into 
a strain of grandeur and sublimity, which 
der« poetry has not surpassed. The noble 
entinients of patriotism with which it cou- 
/udes, correspond with the rest of the poem. 
In no age or country have the pastoral muses 
breathed such elevated accents, if the Messiah 
of Pope be excepted, which is indeed a pastoral 
in form only. It is to be regretted that Burnt 
did not employ his genius on other subjects ol 
the same nature, which the manners and cus- 
toms of the Scottish peasantry would have am. 
ply supplied. Such poetry is not to be estimat- 
ed by the degree of pleasure which it bestows ; 
it sinks deeply into the heart, and is calculated, 
far beyond any olher human means, for giving 
permanence to (he scenes and the characters it 
so exquisitely describes. -j- 



* The reader will recollect that the Cotter 
was Burns 's father. Seep. S2. 

+ A great number of manuscript poems were 
found among the papers of Burns, addres- 
sed to him by admirers of his genius, from 
different parts of Britain, as well as from Ire- 
land and America. Among these was a poeti- 
cal epistle from Mr Telford of Shrewsbury, of 
superior merit. It was written in the Dialect 
of Scotland (of which country Mr Telford is a 
native), and in the versification generally em- 
ployed by our poet himself. Its object is to 
r»c'ommeud to him other subjects of a serioue 
nature similar to that of the CvttsrS Saturday 
Night ; and the reader will find that the advice 
is happily enforced by example. It would 
have given the editor pleasure to hate inserted 
the whole of this poem, which he hopes will 
one day see the lignl ; he is happy to have ob- 
tained, in the meantime, bis friend Air I'el- 
ford's permission to insert the foilowiug ex- 



Pursue. O Burns ! thy happy Btyl«, 

'- Those manner-painting strains," that whDe 

Tbey bear me uorthwaro many a mile. 

Recall the days. 
When tender joys, with pleasing smile. 

Bless 'd my youcg ways. 

I see my fond companions rise, 

i join the happy village joys, 

I see our green hills touch the skies. 

And through the woods, 
I hear the river *t rusnmg noise. 

Its roaring floods.* 



1 Dumfriesshire, 



Hot could hit wishes stronger grow, 

Tlian stiU have mine. 

When up tbi« ancient mount t I go. 

With songs of thine, 

O happy Bard ! tny generous flame 
Was given to raise thy country's fame. 
For this thy charming numbers came, 

lliy matchless lays i 
Then sing and save her virtuous name^ 

To latest days. 



But mony a theme awaits thy muse, 
Fine as thy Cotter's sacred views. 
Then in such verse thv soul infuse. 

With holy air. 
And sing the course the pious choose. 

With all thy care. 

How with religious awe impress'd, 
Ihey open lay the guiltless breast, 
And youth and age with tears distress 'd. 

All due prepare. 
The symbols of eternal rest 

Devout to share. \ 

How down ilk lang withdrawing hill. 
Successive crowds the valleys fill. 
While pure religious converse stiU 

Beguiles the way. 
And gives a cast to youthful will. 

To suit the day. 

How placed along the sacred board, 
'iheir hoary pastor's looks adored. 
Ilia voice with peace and blessing stored. 

Sent from above ; 
And faith, and hope, and joy afford. 

And boundless love. 

O 'er this, with warm seraphic glow. 
Celestial beings, pleased, bow, 
Aud, whisper 'd, hear the holy vow, 

'Mid grateful tears ; 
And mark, amid such scenes below, 

"iheir futtue peers. 



O mark the awful solemn scene !§ 
When hoary winter clothes the piai 
Along the snowy hills is seen 



Some much-respected brother's bier, 
(By turns in pious task they share) 
With heavy heartb they forward bear 
Along the path ; 

t A beautiful little mount which stand* 
immediately before, or rather forms a part 
of Shrewsbury castle, a seat of Sir William 
Pnlteuey, Bart. 

j The Sacrament, generally administered ia 

the country parishes of Scotland in the open air. 

^ A Scottish funeral. 



BURXS.— LIFE. 



71 



A ad when they pass the rocky howe. 
Where binwood bushes o'er them flow, 
And move around the rising knowe, 

"Where far away 
The kirk-yard trees are seen to grow. 

By th' water brae. 

Assembled round the narrow grave, 
While o'er them wintry tempests rave, 
In the cold wind their grey locks wav« 

As low they lay 
Their brother's body 'mongst the lave 

Of parent clay. 

Expressive looks from each declare 
'Ihfc griefs within, their bosoms bear, 
0: e holy bow devont they share. 

Then home return. 
And think o'er all the virtues fair 

Of him they mourn. 



? ■; how by early lessons taught, 
(Truth's pleasing air is willing caught) 
Congenial to th' untainted thought. 

The shepherd boy, 
WTio tends his flocks on lonely height. 

Feels holy joy. 

Is . nght OB earth so lovely known. 
On Sabbath morn, and far alone, 
His guileless soul all naked shown 

Before his God- 
Such prayers must welcome reach the throne, 

And bless 'd abode. 

♦> tell ! with what a heartfelt joy, 
''• .e parent eyes the virtuous boy ; 
Aiid all his constant, kind employ. 

The best of lear be can enjoy. 



■" '3 parish-school, its curious site, 
I'ae master who can clear indite. 
And lead him on to coi:nt and write, 

Demand thy care ; 
Nor pass the ploughman's scnool at night, 

Withont a share. 

Nor yet the tenty curious lad, 

>'. ho o'er the ingle hings his head. 

And begs o' neighbours' books to read ; 

For hence arise 
Thy country's sons, who far are spread, 

Baith bauld and wise^ 



* This alludes to a superstition prevalent 
Ir F,>kdale and Annandale, that a light pre- 
c 'lies in the night every funeral, marking the 
precise path it is to pass. 



lect, and always cf^er the model of the Scottish 
songs, on the general character and moral in- 

already been ofi'ered. We may hazard a few 
more particular remarks. 

Of the historic or heroic ballads of Scot- 
land it is unnecessary to speak. Burns has no 
where imitated them, a circumstance to be re- 
gretted, since in this species of composition, 
from its admitting the more terrible, as well as 
the softer graces of poetry, he was eminetitly 
qualified to have excelled. 1 he Scottish songs 
which served as a model to Burns, are aJniost, 
without exception, pastoral, or rather rural. 
Such of them as are comic, frequently treat 
a rustic courtship, or a country wedding ; or 
they describe the differences of opinion which 
arise in married life. Burns has imitated this 
species, and surpassed his models. The song 
beffinnin?, '• Husband, husband, cease your 
strife," may be cited in support of this observa- 



The bonny lasses a? they spin. 

Perhaps wi' Allan's sangs begin 

How Tay and Tweed smooth flowing tin 

Through flowery howes ; 
Where Sheph«ni-Iads their sweethearts win 
^Vith earnest vows. 

Or mav he. Burns, thy thrilling page 
May a^ tber virtuous thoughts engage, 
While playfal youth and placid age 



Long may their harmless simple ways. 

May still the dear romantic blaze 
Of purest love, 

Their bosoms warm to latest days. 

And a^e improve. 

May stiU each fond attachment glow. 
O'er woods, o'er streams, o'er hills of sn 
May rugged rocks still dearer grow. 

And may their souls 
Even love the warlock glens which throus 

The tempest howls. 

To eternize snch themes as these. 
And all their happy manners seize. 
Will every virtuous bosom please. 

And high in fame. 
To future times will justly raise 

Thy patriot name. 

T^Tiile all the venal tribes decay. 
That bask in flattery's flaunting ray. 
The noisome vermin of a day. 

Thy works shall gaip 
O'er every mind a boundless sway. 

And lasting reign. 

^^^len winter binds the harden 'd plains. 
Around each hear'h, the hoary swains 
Shall teach the rising youth thy strains. 



Our blessing with o 



And Burns 's Lay I 



72 



DIAMOND CABIICET LIBIL\RY. 



tion.* HU other comic songs are of equal 
nieiit. la the rural songs of Scotland, 
\?hefber humorous or tender, the sentiments 
are given to particular characters, and very 
generally, the incidents are referred to particu- 
lar scenery. This last circunjataoce may be 
considered as a distia^uishino; feature of the 
Scottish fones, and oa it a considerable part of 
their attraction depends. On all occasions the 
sentiments, of whatever nature, are delivered 
in the character of the person principally inter- 
ested. If love be described, it is not as it is 
observed, but as it is felt ; and the passion is 
delineated under a particular aspect. Neither 
is it the fiercer impulses of desire that are ex- 
pressed, as in the celebrated ode of Sappho, the 
model of so many modern son^s , but those 
gentler emotions of tenderness and affection, 
whicb do not entirely absorb the lover; but 
permit him to associate his emotions with the 
charms of external nature, and breathe the ac- 
cents of purity and innocence, as well as of 
love. la these respects the love-songs of Scot- 
land are honourably distinguished from the 
most admired classical compositions of the 
Et\me kind ; and by such association;, a'variety 
as wei! as liveliness, is eiven to the representa- 
tion of this passion, which are not to be found 
in the poetry of Greece or Rome, or perhaps of 
any other nation. Maoy of the love songs of 
Scotland describe scenes of rural courtship ; 
many may be considered as invocations from 
lovers to their mistresses. On such occasions 
a degree of interest and reality is given to the 
sentiment, by the spot destined to these happy 
interviews being particularized. The lovers 
perhaps meet at the Bush, aboon Trcquair, or 
on the Banks of Ettrick ; the nymphs are in- 
voked to wander among the wilds of Roslin or 
the woods of Invermay. Nor is the spot mere- 
ly pointed out ; the scenery is often described as 
■well as the character, so as to represent a com. 
pleta picture to the fancy, t Thus the maxim 



* The dialogues between husbands and their 
wives, which form the subjects of the Scottish 
Bongs, are almost all ludicrous and satirical, 
and in these contests the lady is eenerally vie- 
•orious. From the coUeciions of 31r Pir.kerton, 
^e find that the comic muse of Scotland de- 
lighted in such representations from very early 
times, in her rude dramatic efforts, as well as 



•' On Ettrick banks, on a summer's nisrht 
At gloaming, when the sheep drove hame, 

I met my lassie, braw and tight. 
Come wading barefoot a' her lane : 

iMy heart grew light, I ran, I flang 

My arms about her lily-neck. 
And kiss'd and clasped there fu' lang — 

My words they were na mony feck. '' 

The lover, who is a Highlander, goes on to 
relate the language he employed with his Low- 
land maid to win her heart, and to persuade 
her to fly with him to the Highland hills, there 



ciselves beautiful. But we feel iheui with 



of Horace, ui picfura poesf's, is faith fiilly ob 
served by these rustic baids, who are guided by 
the same impulse of nature and sensibility 
which influenced the father of epic poetry, on 
whose example the precept of the Roman poet 
was perhaps founded. By this means the 
imagination is employed to interest the feelings. 
^Vhen we do not conceive distinctly, we do not 
sympathise deeply in any human affection ; and 
we conceive nothing in the abstract. Abstrac- 
tion, so useful in morals, and so essential in 
science, mu^t be abandoned when the heart is 
to be subdued by the powers of poetry or of 
eloquence. The "bards of a ruder condition of 
society paint icdividu'-il objects ; and hence, 
among other causes, the easy access they ob- 
tain to the heart. Generalization is the vice 
of poets, whose learning overpowers their ge- 
nius ; of poets of a refined and scientific age. 

The dr;imatic style which prevails so much 
in the Scottish songs, while it contributes 
greatly to the interest they excite, also shows 
thit they have originated among a people in 
the earlier stages of society. Where this form 
of composition appears in songs of a modern 
date, it indicates that they have been written 
alter the ancient model, f 



double force, while we conceive that they were 
addressed by a lover to his mistress, whom he 
met all alone on a summer's evening, by the 
banks of a beautiful stream, which some of us 
have actually seen, and which all of us can 
paint to our imagination. Let us take another 
example. It is now a nymph that speak- 
Hear how she expresses herseif— 

'• How blythe each morn was I to se^ 

Jly swain come o'er the hill ? 
He bkipp'd the burn, and flew to me, 

I met him with good will." 

Here is another picture drawn by the pencil of 
Nature. >\'e tee a shepherdess standing by the 
side of a brook, watching her lover as he de- 
scends the opposite hill. He bounds lightly 
along : he approaches nearer and nearer ; he 
leaps the brook, and flies into her arms. I 
the recollection of these circumstances, th" 
surrounding scenery becomes endeared to the 
fair mourner, and she bursts into the following 
exclamation : 



"O the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom. 
The broom of the Cowden-knowesI 

I wish I were with my dear swain. 
With his pipe and my ewes." 

Thus the individual spot of this happy inter- 
view is pointed out, and the picture is com- 
pleted. 

^ That the dramatic form of writing charac- 
terizes the productions of an early, or, what 
amounts to the same, of a rude stage of 
society, may be illustrated by a reference to 
the most ancient compositions that »e know of, 
the Hebrew scriptures, and the writings of 
Homer. The form of dialogue is adopted in 
the old Scottish ballads, even in narration, 
whenever the situation described becomes inter- 
esting. This sometimes produces a very strik- 
ing effect, of which an instance may be given 
from the ballad of Edom o' Gordon, a com^o- 



BURNS.— LIFE. 



73 



The Scottish song are of very unpqur.l poet- 
ical merit, and this Inequality oUtu t-.Mti.us to 
the dilferent parts of the same song. Those 
• hat are humorous, or characteristic of mau- 
uexs, have in general the merit of copying na- 
ture ; those that are serious, are teuder, and 
often sweetly interesting, but seldom exhibit 
high powers of imagination, vihich indeed do 
uot easily find a place in this species of compo- 
sition. The alliance of the words if the Scot- 
tish songs with the music, has in some in- 
stances given to the former a popularity, which 
otherwise they would never have obtained. 

The association of the words and the music 
of these songs, with tne more beautiful parts of 
the scenery of Scotland, contributes to the 
same effect. It has given them not merely 
popularity, but permanence ; it has imparted to 
the works of njau some portion of the durabil- 
ity of the works of nature. If, from our im- 
perfect experience of the past, we niayjudge 
with any ccnlidence respecting the future, 
songs of this description are of all others the 
leas"t likely to die. In the changes of language 
they may no doubt suHer change ; but the as- 
Kjciated strain of sentiment and of music will 
perhaps survive, while the clear stream sweeps 
iowu the \alfcof Yarrow, or the yellow broom 
waves on the Cowden-Knowes. 

The tlrst attempts of Burns in song-writing 
-were not very successful. His habitual inat- 
tention to the exactness of rhymes, and to the 
harmony of numbers, aiising probably from 
the models on which his versilication was 
formed, were faults likely to appear to more 
advantage in this species of composition, tliau 
in any other; and we may also remark, that 
die strength of his imagination, and the exu- 
berance of his sensibility, were with difnculty 
restrained within the limits of gentleness, deli- 
cacy, and tenderness, which seem to be assigned 
to the love songs of his nation. Burns 
better adapted by nature for following in 



positions the model of the Grecian t)i:in 
of the bcollish muse, iiy study and praL-lure 
he however surmounted all these obstacles. 
In his earlier songs there is some ruggedness : 
but this gradually disappears in his successive 
eltbrts ; and some of his later compositions 
of this kind may be compared, in polished de- 
licacy, with the finest songs in our language, 
while in the eloquence of sensibility they sur- 
pass them all. 

The songs of Burns, like the models he 
followed and excelled, are often dramatic, and 
for the greater part amraory ; and the Leauties 
of rural nature are everywhere associated with 
the passions and emotions of the mind. Dis- 
daining to copy the works of others, he has 
not, like some poets of great name, admitted 
into his descriptions exotic imagery. The 
landscapes he has painted, and the objects with 
which they are embellished, are, in every 
single instance, such as are to be found in 
his own country. In a mountainous region, 
especially when it is comparatively rude and 
naked, the most beauiiful scenery will always 
be found in the valleys, and on the banks oi 
the wooded streams. Such scenery is peculiar- 
ly interesting at the close of a summer day. 
As we advance northwards, the number of 
the days of summer, indeed, diminishes ; but, 
from this cause, as well as from the mildness 
of the temperature, the attraction of the season 
increases, and the summer night oecomes 
still more beautiful. 'Ihe greater obliquity oi 
the sun's path on the ecliptic, prolongs the 
grateful season of twilight to the midnight 
hours, and the shades of the evening seem to 
mingle -with the morning's dawn. The rural 
poets of Scotland, as may be expected, asso- 
ciate in their songs the expression of passion, 
with the most beautiful of their scenery, in 
the fairest season of the year, and generally in 
those hours of the evening when the beauties of 
nature are n 



siiion apparently of the sixteenth century. The 
story of the ballad is shortly this : — The Castle 
of Uhoaes, in the absence of its lord, is attack- 
ed by the robber Edom o' Gordon. 'Ihe lady 
stands on her defence, beats otf the assailants, 
and wouncs Gordon, who in his rage orders 
castle to be set on fire. That his orders 
carried into effect, we learn from the expos 
laiioQ of the lady, who is represented as siai 
iug on the battlements, and remonstrating on 
thts barbarity. She is interrupted — 
■ • O then besjDake her little son. 
Sate on his uourice's knee ; 
Says, ' mither dear, gie owre this house, 

♦ For the reek it smithers me. ' 
I wad gie a' my gowd, my childe, 

Sae wad 1 a' my fee. 
For ae blast o' the westlin wind. 
To blaw the reek frae thee. ' * 

The circumstantiality of the Scottish love- 
Bongs, and the dramatic form which prevails 
so {generally in them, probably arises from 
tlieir being the descendants and successors of 
the ancient ballads. In the beautiful modern 
song of Mary of Castle-Carj/, the dramatic 
form has a very happy effect. The same may 
be said of D'maid und Flora, and Co.ne under 
Biy plaiiiie, by the same author, Mr .Vacniel. 



*A lady, of whose genius the editor enter- 
tains high admiration (Mrs Barbauld), has 
fallen into an error in this respect. In her 
prefatory address to the works of Collins, 
speaking of the natural objects that may be em- 
ployed to give interest to the descriptions of 
passion, she observes, " they present an inex- 
haustible variety, from the Song of Solomon, 
breathing of cassia, myrrh, and cinnamon, to 
the Gentle Shepherd of Ramsay, whose dam- 
sels carry their milking-pails through the frosts 
and snows of their less genial, but not less pas- 
toral country. " The damsels of Ramsay do 
not walk in the midst of frost and snow. — Al- 
most all the scenes of the Gentle Shepherd are 
laid in the open air, amidst beautiful natural 
objects, and at the most genial season of the 
year. Ramsay introduces all his acts with a 
prefatory description to assure of this. The 
fault of the climate of Britain is not, that it 
does not afford us the beauties of summer, but 
that the season of such beauties is compara- 
tively short, and even uncertain. There are 
days and nights, even in the northern division 
of the island, which equal, or perhaps sur- 
pass what are to be found in the latitude of 
Sicily or of Greece, r.-ciianaii, wut;: he 
wrote his exquisite -^de to May, felt the charra 
as well as the tiuiuientueits of these happy dayt* 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 
described noder 



To all th-se adventif=ons circumstinces, oa 
w 1 i-h so much of ibe ettect of jtoetry depends, 
pT>-ai aiieation is paid by Barns. There is 
scarcely a single soag of his in which particular 
seeaery is not described, or allusions made to 
natural objects, retuarkab.e for beauty or in- 
terest ; and though his descriptions are not so 
full as are sometimes met with in the older 
Scottish songs, they are iu the highest degree 
appropriate and interesting. Instances in proof being learnt 
of this might be quoted from the Lea Rig, I deep' 



yarious aipeets, as it appasn 
aunng me sottness and ser^city of evening, aod 
during the stillness and solemnity of the moon- 
light nighu 

There is no species of poetry, the productions 

of the drama not excepted, so much calculated 

to iivfluence the morals, as well as the happiness 

of a people, as those popular verses which are 

iociated with the national airs, and which 

the years of infancy, make a 

the heart before the evola- 



Highland Uary, the Soldier's Return, Logan \ tion of the powers of the understanding. The 
heater, from that beautiful pastoral, Bonnie compositions of Burns, of this kind, now pre- 
Jean, and a great number of others. Occa- | sented in a collected form to the world, make 
sionally the force of his genius carries him be- a most important addition to the popular songs 
yond the usual boundaries of Scottish song, ' of his nation. Like all his other writings, 
and the natural objecU introduced have more of . they exhibit independence of sentiment ; they 
tde character of sublimity. An instance of this ! are peculiarly calculated to increase those tie* 
kind is noticed by Mr Syme,^' and many others | which bind generous hearts to their n 



might be adduced. 



There would I weep my woes. 
There seek my last repose. 
Till grief my eyes should close. 
Ne'er to wake more." 

In one song. \he scene of which is laid in a 
winter nighi, the " wan moon" is described as 
'•settle? behind the white waves ; " in another, 
the "storms" are apostrophized, and com- 
manded to ''rest in the cave of their slumbers. " 
Oc several occasions, the genius of Burns loses 
sight entirely of his archetypes, and rises into 
a strain of uniform sublimity. Instances of 
this kind apD«ar in Liberty, a Vision, and in 
his two war-songs, Bruce to his Troops, and 
i».e Song of Death. These last are of a desorip. 
tion of which we have no other in our language. 
The martial songs of oar nation are not military, 
but naval. If we were to seek a comparison of 
these songs of Bums with others of a similar 
nature, we must have recourse to the poetry of 
a:icient Greece, or of modern Gaul. 

Burns has n»ade aa impjriant addition to the 
tv>ngs of Scotland. In his compositions, the 
poetry equals and sometimes surpasses the 
music He has enlarged the poetical scenery 
of his country. >Jany of her rivers and mouQ- 
taias, formerly unknown to the muse, are now 
consecrated by his immortal verse. The Doon, 
lt>e Lugar, the Ayr, the Nith, and the Cluden, 
v=\i\ in future, like the Yarrow, ttie Tweed, ami 
fae Tay, be considered as classic streams, and 
their borders will be trod with new and superior 

The greater part of the songs of Burns we'e 
written after he removed iuto tae county of 
I>amfries. Inflaeiiced, perhaps, by habits 
formed in early life, he usually composed while 
walking in the open air. When engaged in 
writiog these songs, his favourite walks w3re 
on the banks of the Nith, or of the Cluden, 
particularly near the ruins ufLincluden Abbey ; 
and this beantifal scenery be has very happily i 



Salve fngaeia gloria secQ'.l, 
tsalve secuuda digna dies nota, 
Salvs vetustiB vita imago, 
Et specimen venienlis -Evit 



and to the domestic circle of their infancy s 
h those sensibilities which, under 
form the purest bappiness tit 
our nature. If in his unguarded moments ha 
composed some songs on which this praise can- 
not be bestowed, let us hope that they will 
speedily be forgotten. In several instances, 
where Scottish airs were allied to words ob- 
jectionable in point of delicacy. Boras has sub- 
stituted others of a purer character. On such 
occasions, without cnanging the subject, he has 
changed the sentiments. A proof of this may 
be seen in the air of John Anderson my Jo, 
which ia now united to words that breathe a 
strain of conjugal tenderness, that is as highly 
moral as it is exquisitely affecting. 

Few eircumstances could afford a more 
striking proof of the strength of Bums 'genius, 
than the general circulation of his poems in 
England, notwithstanding the dialect iu which 
the greater part are written, and which might 
be supposed to reocer them here uncouth or ob- 
scure. In some instances he has used this 
dialect on subjects of a sublime nature; but in 
geueral be conhnes it to sentiments or descrip- 
tion of a tender or humorous kind ; and, where 
he rises into elevation of thought, he assumes 
a purer English style. The singular faculty 
he possessed of mingling in the same poem hu- 
morons sentimenis and descriptions, with ima- 
gery of a sublime and temtic nature, enabled 
him to use this variety of dialect on some occa- 
sions with striking effect. His poem of Tain 
o' Shanter affords an instance of this. There 
he passes from a scene of the lowest humour, 
to situaiions of the most awful and terrible 
kind. He is a musiciau that runs from (he 
lowest to the highest of his keys ; and the use 
of the Scottish dialect enables him to add two 
additional notes to the bottom of his scale. 

Great efforts have been made by the inhabi. 
tants of Scotland, of the superior ranks, to ap- 
proximate in their speech tu the pure English 
standard; and this has made it difficult to write 
in the Scottish dialect, without exciting in 
them some feelings of disgust, which in Eng- 
land are scarcely' felt. An Englishman who 
understands the meaning of the Scottish words, 
is not offended, nay, on certain subjects, he is 
pprbar>s pleased with tbe rustic dialect, as he 
may be with the Doric Greek of Theocritus. 

But a Sc -tchman inhabiting his own coun- 
try, if a ma.i of education, and more especially 
''" literary o -araeter, has banished luoh 
' lugs, and has &tt«m|)ted ta 



[words from his v 



BUR.VS — LIFE. 



75 



banUb them from his eppwh ; and bein? 
accustomed to hear them from the vul°:ar 
iaily, does not easily aami- of their nse in 
poetry, which require* a style elevated and 
oruaiD.;.Ual. A dislike of thii kind, is, how- 
ever, abcidental, not naturaL It is of the 
species of disgust which we feel at seeing a 
female of high birth in the dress of a rustic ; 
which if she be really young and beautiful, a 
little habit will enable us to overcome. A 
lady who asAumes such a dress puts her beauty, 
indeed, to a severer triaL She rejects — she, 
' indeed, opposes, the influence of fashion ; she, 
possibly, abandons the grace of elegant and 
flowing diapery ; but her native charms re- 
main, the more striking, perhaps, because the 
less adorned : and to these she trusts for fixing 
her empire on those aflections over which 
fashion has no sway. If she succeeds, a new 
association arises. The dress of the beautiful 
rustic becomes itself beautiful, and establishes 
a new fashion for the young and the gay. And 
when, in after ages, the contemplative observer 
shall view her picture in the gallery that con- 
tains the portraits of the beauties of successive 
centuries, each in the dress of her respectirs 
day, her drapery will not deviate, more than 
that of her rivals, from the standard of his 
lastp, and he will give the palm to her who 
excels in the lineaments of nature. 

Burns wrote professedly for the peasantry of 
his country, and by them" their natire dialect is 
universally relished. To a numerous class of 
the natives of Scotland of another description, 
it may also be considered as attractive in a 
different point of view. Estranged from their 
native soil, and spread over foreign lands, the 
idiom of their country unites with the senti- 
ments and the descriptions on which it is 
employed, to recall to their minds the interesting 
scenes of infancy and youth — to awaken many 
pleasing, many tender recollections. Literary 
men, residing at Edinburgh or Aberdeen, 
cannot judee on tliis point for one hundred 
and fifty thousand of their expatriated coantry- 

To the use of the Scottish dialect In one spe- 
, cies of poetry, the co.nposition of songs, the 
toste of the public has been for some time 
reconciled. The dialect in question excels, tis 



* These observations are excited by some 
-emarks of respectable correspondents of the 

escription alluded to. 'I'hi* calculation of 
the number of Scotchmen living out of Scot- 
land is not altogether arbitrary, and it is pro- 
bably below the truth. It is, in some degree, 
founded on the proportion between the number 
of the sexes in Scotland, as it appears from the 

invaluable Statistics of Sir John Sinclair 

For Scotchmen of this description more parti- 
cularly. Burns seems to have written his song 
L-ginning, Their graves o' su^ert my^-t!e, a 
bruutiful strain, which, it may be coiitidently 
prpdicted, will be sung with equal or superior 

iit.rest, on the banks of the Ganges or of ttie 

^li.ssisaippi, a« on those of the lay or the 

Tweed. 



has already been observed, ni the cop!ousn»'S« 
and exactness of it^ terms for natural objects ; 
and in pastoral or rural songs, it gives a Dorio 
simplicity, which is very generally approved. 
Neither does the regret seem well founded 
which some persons of taste have expressed, 
that Burns used this dialect in so many other 
of his compositions. His declared purpose 
was to paint the manners of rustic life among 
his "humble compeers, '* and it is not easy to 
conceive, that this could have been done with 
equal humour and effect, if he had not adopted 
their idiom. There are some, indeed, who 
will think the subject too low for poetry. Per- 
sons of this sickly taste will find their delica- 
cies consulted in many a polite and learned 
author ; let them not seek for gratification in 
the rough and vigorous lines, in the unbridled 
humour, or in the overpowering sensibility of 
this bard of nature. , 

To determine the comparative merle of Burns 
would be no easy task. IVlaoy persons after- 
wards distinguished in literature, have been 
born in as humble a situation of life ; but it 
would be difficult to find any other, who, 
while earning his subsistence by daily labour, 
has written verses which have attracted and 
retained universal attention, and which are 
likely to give the author a permanent and 
distinguished place among the followers of the 
muses. If he is deficient in grace, he is dis- 
tinguished for ease as well as energy ; and 
these are indications of the higher order of 
g'suius. The father of epic poetry exhibits on« 
of his heroes as excelling in strength, anothe» 
in swiftness — to form his perfect warrior, 
these attributes are combined. Every species 
of intellectual superiority admits, perhaps, of 
a similar arrangement. One writer excels in 
force — another in ease ; he is superior to them 
both, in whom both these qualities are united. 
Of Homer himself, it may be said, that like 
his own Achilles, he surpasses his competitor 
in mobility na well as strength. 

The force of Burns lay in the powers of h'.a 
understanding, and in the sensibility of his 
heart ; and these will be found to infuse the 
living principle into all the works of genius 
which seem destined to immortality. His 
sensibility had an uncommon range. He was 
alive to every species of emotion. He is one 
of the few poets that can be mentioned, who 
have at once excelled in humour, in tenderness, 
and in sublimity; a praise unknown to the 
ancients, and which in modern times is only 
due to Ariosto, to Shakspeare, and perhaps to 
Voltaire. To compare the writino^s of the 
Scottish peasant with *he works of these giants 
in literature, might appear presumptuous ; 
yet, it may be asserted that he has dispiayed 
the foot o/K>rcules. How near he might have 
approached vhem by proper culture, with 
lengthened years, and under happier auspices, 
i' is not tor us to calculate. But while we run 
over the melancholy story of his life, it is 
impossible not to heave a sigh at the asperity 
of his fortune; and as we eurvey the record* 
of his mind, it is easy to lee, that out of such 
materials have been reared the fairest and tb« 
most durable of the monuments of genius. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



It is impossfble to dismiss tliis Volume* of the 
Correspondence of our Bard, williout some 
anxiety as to the recepliou it may meet with. 
The experiment we are making has not often 
btea tried ; perhaps on no occasion has so large 
a portion of the recent and unpremeditated ef- 
fusions of a man of genius been committed to 
the press. 

Of the following letters of Burns, a consid- 
erable number were transmitted for publication, 
by the individuals to whom they were addres- 
sed ; bat very few have been printed entire. It 
will easDy be believed, that in a series of letters 
written without the least view to publication, 
various passages were found unfit for the press, 
from diti'erent considerations. It will also be 
readily supposed, that our Poet, writing nearly 
at the same time, and under the same feelings 
to different individuals, would sometimes fall 
into the same train of sentiment and forms of 
expression. To avoid, therefore, the tedious- 
ness of such repetitions, it has been found ne- 
cecsary to mutilate many of the individual 
letters, and sometimes to exscind parts of great 
delicacy — the unbridled efiusions of panegyric 
and regard. But though many of the let"terg 
are printed from originals furnished by the per- 
sons to whom they were addiessed, others are 
printed from first draughts, or sketches, found 
amon? the papers of our Bard. ITiough in ge- 
neral no man committed his thoughts to his cor- 
respondents with less consideration or effort than 
Bums, yet it appears thai in some instances 
he was dissatisfied with 



i fair. 



•chai 



acier, or perhaps in more studied languagi 
In the chaos of his manuscripts, some of the 
original sketches were found ; and as these 
sketches, though less perfect, are fairly to be 
considered as the offspring of his mind, where 



* Dr Currie's edition of Burns' Works was 
originally published in four volumes, of which 
the following C"'Tespondence formed the se- 
cond. 



they have seemed in themselves worthy of a 
place m this vohime>, we have not hesitatei to 
insert them, though they may not alwajs cor- 
respond exactly with the letters transmitted, 
which have been lost or withheld. 

Our author appears at one time to have form- 
ed an intention of making a collection of his 
letters for the amusement of a friend. Accord- 
ingly he copied an inconsiderable number of 
them into a book, vvhich he presented to Kobert 
Riddle of Glenriddle, Esq. Among these was 
the account of his life, addressed to Dr Moore, 
and printed in the first volume.! In copying 
from his imperfect sketches (it does not appear 
that he had the letters actually sent to his cor- 
respondents before him) he seems to have oc- 
casionally enlarged his observations, and 
altered his expressions. In such instances his 
emendations have been adopted; but in truth 
there are but five of the letters thus selected by 
the poet, to be found in the present volume, the 
rest being thought of inferior merit, or other- 
wise unfit for the public eye. 

In printing this volume, the Editor has found 
some corrections of grammar necessary ; but 
these have been very few, and such as may be 
supposed to occur in the careless effusions, even 
of literary characters, who have notbeeii in the 
habit of carrying their compositions to the 
press. These corrections have never been ex- 
tended to any habitual modes of expression of 
the Poet, even where his phraseology may seem 
to violate the delicacies of taste, or the'idiora 
of our language, which he wrote in general 
with great accuracy. Some difference will 
indeed be found in this respect in his earlier and 
in his later compositions ; and this volume will 
exhibit the progress of his style, as well as the 
history of his mind. In the Fourth Edition, 
eeverai new letters were introduced, and some 
of inferior importance were omitted. 



+ Occupy! 
Edition. 



g from page 1 to p«ge 17 of this 



ON 

THE DEATH OF BURNS. 

BY MR ROSCOE. 



A great number of poems have been written on the death of Burns, some of them of consider- 
able poetical merit. To have subjoined all of them to the present edition, would have been 
to have enlarged it to another volume at least ; and to have made a selection, would have been 
a task of considerable delicacy. 

The Editor, therefore, presents one poem only on this melancholy subject ; a poem which has 
not before appeared in priat. It is from the pen of one who has sympathized deeply in the 
fate of Burns, and will not be found unworthy of its author— the Biographer of Lorenzo dt 
Medici. Of a person so well known, it is wholly unnecessary for the Editor to speak ; and, 
if it were necessary, it would not be easy for Kim to find language that would adequately ex. 
press his respect and his afifectioiu 



Bear high thy bleak majestic hills. 

Thy shelter 'd valleys proudly spread. 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills. 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 
Bot ah ; what poet now shall tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead. 

That ever breathed the soothing strain ? 

As ?reen thy towering pines may grow. 

As clear thy streams may speed along. 
As bright thy summer suns may glow, 

As gaily charm thy feathery throng j 
But now, unheeded is the song. 

And dull and lifeless all around. 
For his wild harp lies all unstrung. 

And cold the hand that waked its sound. 

What though thy vigorous offspring rise. 

In arts, in arms, thy sons excel ; 
Though beauty in thy daughters' eyes. 

And health in every feature dwell ; 
Yet who shall now their praises teU, 

In strains impassioned, fond, and free. 
Since he no more the song shall swell. 

To love, and liberty, and thee. 

With step-dame eye and frown severe 
His hapless youth why didst thou view ? 

For all thy joys to him were dear. 
And all his vows to thee were due ; 

Nor greater bliss his bosom knew. 
In opening youth's delightful orir.ie. 



Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 

To him were all with rapture fraught ; 
He heard with joy the tempest rise 

That waked him to sublimer thouight ; 
And oft thy winding dells he sought, [fume. 

Where wild flow'rs pour'd their rathe per 
And with sincere devotion brought 

To thee the summer's earliest bloom. 

But ah ! no fond maternal smile 

His unprotected youth enjoy 'd. 
His limbs inured to early toil. 

His days with early hardships tried ; 
Aad more, to mark the gloomy void, 

And bid him feel his misery, 
"Before his infant eyes would glide 

Day-dreams of immortality. 

Yet, not by cold neglect depress 'd. 

With sinewy arm he turn 'd the soil. 
Sunk with the evening sun to rest. 

And met at morn his earliest smile. 
Waked by his rustic pipe, meanwhile 

Tlie pow'rs of fancy came along. 
And 'soothed his lengthened hours of toil, 

With native wit and sprightly song. 

— Ah ! days of bliss, too swiftly fled. 

When vigorous health from labour springs. 
And bland contentment smooths the bed. 

And sleep his ready opiate brings ; 
And hovering round on airy wings 

Float the light forms of young desire, 
That of unutterable things 

The soft and sLadowj hope inspire. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



New spells of mightier power prepare, 

Bid brighter phantoms round him daoce ; 
Let Flattery spread her viewless snare. 

And Fame attract his vagrant glance } 
Let sprightly Pleasure too advauce. 

Unveil 'd her eyes, unclasp 'd her zone. 
Till, lost in love's delirious trance. 

He scorns the joys his youth has known 

Let Friendship pour her brightest blaze. 

Expanding all the bloom of soul ; 
And Mirth concentre all her rays. 

And point them from the sparkling bowl , 
And kt the careless moments roll 

In social pleasure unconfined, 
And confidence that spurns control 

Unlock the inmost springs of mind i 

And lead his steps those bowers among. 

Where elegance with splendour vies. 
Or Science bids her favour 'd throng. 

To more refined sensations rise : 
Beyond the peasant's humhler joys. 

And, freed from each laborious stiife. 
There let bim learn the bliss to prize 

That waits the sons of polish'd iifa. 

Then, whilst his throbbing veins beat high 
With every impulse of delight, 

Dash from his lips th« cup ef joy, 
And shfoad the scene ia slutdei of night* 



And let Despair, with wizard light. 
Disclose the yawning gulf below. 

And ponr incessant on his sight 
Her spectred ills and shapes of woe 

And show beneath a cheerless shed. 

With sorrowing heart and streaming eyed 
In silent grief where droops her head. 

The partner of his early joys ; 
And let his infants' tender cries 

His fond parental succour claim 
And bid him hear in agonies 

A husband's and a father's name. 

"Tis done, the powerful charm succeeds ( 

His high reluctant spirit bends ; 
In bitterness of soul he bleeds. 

Nor longer with his fate contends. 
An idiot laugh the welkin rends 

As genius thus degraded lies ; 
Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 

That shrouds the Poet's ardent eyes. 

Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, 

Thj shelter'd valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scolia, ponr thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red | 
But never more shall po«t tread 

Thy airy height, thy woodland reign, 
Since he the sweetest bard is dead 

That ever breathM \.ha soothing ftttiM. 



GENERAL CORRE'SPONDENCE 



ROBERT BURNS. 



LETTERS, &c. 



No. L 
TO A FEMALE FRIEND. 



WRITTEN ABOUT THK YEAR 



1780. 



1 Verilv believe, my dear E. that the pure 
pt'iiiiine feelings of love, are as rare in tbe 
vorid as the pure genuine principles of virtue 
anJ piety. This, 1 hope, will account for ibe 
uncommon style of all my letters to you. By 
uncommon, 1 mean, their being written in such 
a serious manner, which, to tell you ths truth, 
has made me often afraid lest jou should take 
me for a zealous bigot, who conversed with his 
mistress as he would converse with his uiini=,- 
ter. 1 don't know how it is, my dear; for 
though, except your company, there is iv.)ihinj£ 
on earth that gives me so much pleasure as 
writing to you. yet it never gives me those 
giddy raptures so much talked of among lovers. 
1 have often thought, that if a well-grounded 
alVection be not really a part of virtue, 'tis 
iinely akin to it. Whenever 
ray E. warms my heart, every 
tery principle of gi 



lomething « 

lie thought of r 

eelingof huma 

)bity, kindles in my orea: 

jvery dirty spark of maiic( 

ire but too apt to infest i 



It e 



;uislie 



which 
. I grasp every 
creature in tne artns or universal benevolence, 
and equally participate in the pleasures of this 
happy, and sympathize with the miseries of the 
unfortunate. I assure you, my dear, I often 
look up to the divine Disposer of events, with 
an eye of gratitude for the blessiuij which I 
hope he intends to bestow on me, in bestowing 
you. I sincerely wish that he may bless my 
endeavours to make your life as comfortable and 
happy as possible, both in sweetening the 
rougher parts of my natural temper, and bet- 
tering the unkindly circumstances of my for- 
tune. This, my dear, is a passion, at least in 
my view, worthy of a man, and I will add, 
worthy of a Christian. The sordid earth-worm 
may profess love to a woman's person, whilst, 
in reality, his affection is centered in her pock- 
et ; and the slavish drudge may go a-wooing i 
as he goes to the horse-markei to choose one 
who is siout and firm, and, as we may say of 
an old horse, one who will be a good drudge 
and draw kindly. I disdain their dirty, puny 
ideas. I would be heartily out of humour 
with myself, if I thought I were capable of J 
having so poor a notion of the sex, which were ' 
designed to crown the pleasures of society. 
Poor devils 5 I doa't euvy them theisr huppi. 



TO THE SAME. 

MY DEAR E. 
1 Jo not remember in the course of yonr sSt. 
qnaintauce and mine, ever to have heard your 
opiiiiou on the ordinary way of falling in love, 
amongst people of our station of life : 1 do not 
mean the persons who proceed in the way of 
bar:;ain, hut those whose afieotioa is really 
placed on the person. 

Though I be, as you know very well, bat a 
very awkward lover myself, yet as I have some 
opportunities of observing the conduct of others 
who are much better skilled in tbe affair of 
courtship than I am, I often think it is owing 
to lucky chance more than to good manageine; ■ 
lore unhappy marriages 



that there < 
that 



It is natural for a young fellow to like tha 
acquaintance of the females, and customary fir 
him to keep them company when occasioa 
serves ; some one of them is more agreeable to 
him than the rest ; there is something, h« 
knows not what, pleases him, he knows pot 
how, in her company. This I take to be what 
is called love with the greatest part of us, and 
I must own, my dear E. it is a hard game 
such a one a~ you have to play when you meet 
with such a lover. You cannot refuse but he 
is sincere, and yet though you use him ever sa 
favourably, perhaps in a few months, or at 
farthest in a year or two, the same uuaccount 
able fancy may make him as distractedly fond 
of another, whilst you are quite forgot. I am 
aware, that perhaps the next time I have the 
pleasure of seeing you, you may bid me take 
my own lesson home, and tell me that the pas- 
sion I have professed for you is perhaps one of 
those transient flashes I have been describing ; 
bat I hope my dear E. you will do me tha 
justice to believe me, when I assure you, that 
the love I have for you is founded on the sa- 
cred principles of virtue and honour, and bj 
consequt-nce, so long as you continue possessed 
of thos^- amiable quahties which first inspired 
my pissioii for you, so long must I continue 
to love you. Believe me, my dear, it is lov« 
like this alone which can render the married 
state happy. People may talk of flames sad 



S2 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



,-a}jiure^ as long <»s they please; and a worm 
f:; ;.»;) with a liow of jouthfu! spirits, luay make 
flieiJ) tt-el BomethinsT like wl.at they describe; 
But eure 1 am, the nobler faculties of the 
miad, with kindred feelings of the heart, can 
only be the foundation of friendship, and it 
has always, been my opiniou, that the mairied 
life was only friendship iu a more ezalted de- 

If you will be so good as to grant my wishes, 
and it should please providence to t^pare us to 
the latest periods of life, 1 can look 



and s 



1 thei 



igh bei. 



1 all olh. 

worldly circumsiances will be iuuil.ereut ! 
me, I will regard my E. with the lenderest 
nilectiou, and for thia plain rea::on, because sh 
is still possessed of those noble (juaiities, ini 
proved to a much higher degree, which trs 
inepired my affection for her. 

• • O ! happy state, when souls tach other 

When love is liberty, and natur 

1 know, were I to speak in such a stYle to 
nuuiy a girl who thinks herself po=^e^^ed■of 
eiuall share of sense, she would ihiuk it ridi- 
ciiloia — but the language of the he 
Cent E., the only courtship I shall t 
you. 

vS'hen I look over what I have 
am sens'ble it it vastly diti'ereut from the ordi- 
nary stjie of courtship — but 1 shall make 
Rpoicgy — I kuow your good nature will eicu 
what your good sense may se« amiss. 



No. IIL 
TO THE SAME. 

MY BEAR B. 

I have often thought it a peculiarly unlucky 
cin-iiitiiiiaiice in love, that though, in every 
other situation ia life, telling the truth i^ not 
oi.ij tlie safest, but actually by far the easiest 
way of proceeding, a lover is never under 
greater difficulty in acting, or more puzzled for 
expression, than when his passion is si icere, 
and his intentions a/e honourable. I do not 
think that it is very difficult for a person of 
ord'i'Jiry capacity to talk of love and fondness, 
vhich ai-e not felt, and to make vows of con- 
stancy and hdelity, which are never intended 
to be performed. If he be viUain euoug-h to 
practise such detestable conduct: but to a 
jnan whose heart glows with the principles of 
integrity and truth ; and who sincerely loves a 
Ionian of amiable person, uncommon refine- 
meiit of sentiment, and purity of manners — to 
snob a one, iu such circumstances, I can assure 
you, my dear, from my own feelings at this 
present moment, courtship is a task indeed. 
There is such a number of foreboding fears, 
and distrus'i'ul anxieties crowd into my mind 
when 1 am in your company, or when I sit 
down to write to you, that what to speak or 
■what to write 1 am altogether at a loss. 

There is one rule wliich I have hitherto 
practised, and which 1 thaii iuvariAbly keep 
with you, and that is, hx-ieslly to teii you the 
nlaiu'truth. There JS sriaeihmg so >.• can and 



unmanly in the arts of dissimulation and fa!i«> 
hood, that 1 am surprised they can be used bj 
any one ui so noble, so generous a passion as 
virtuous love. Iso, my dear E. I shall never 
endeavour to gain your favour by such detest- 
able practices. If you will be so good and so 
generous as to admit me for your partner, your 
companion, your bosom friend through life ; 
there is nothing on this side of eternity shall 
give me greater transport ; but I shall ne\er 
think of piu-chasing your hand by any arts un- 
worthy of a man, and I will add of a Christian. 
There is one thing, my dear, which I earuestv 
ly request of you, and it is this; that you 
would soon either put an end to my hopes by 
a peremptory refusal, or cure me of my fears 
by a generous consent. 

It would oblige me much if you would send 
me a line or two when convenient. I shall 
only add further, that if a behaviour regulat- 
ed (though perhaps but very imperfectly; by 
the rules of honour and ^irtae, if a heart de- 
voted to love and esteem you, and an earnest 
endeavour to promote your happiness ; and if 
these are qualities you would wish in a friend, 
iu a husband ; 1 hope you shall ever hud thetn 
iu your real trieud and sincere lover. 



No. IV. 

TO THE SAME. 

I ought in good manners to have acknowledged 
the receipt of your letter betuie this time, 
but my heart was so shocked with the con- 
tents of it, that I can scarcely yet collect my 
thoughts so as to write to you on the subject. 
1 will not attempt to describe what I felt oa 
receiving your letter. I read it over and over, 
again and again, and though it was in the po- 
litest language of refusal, still it was peremp- 
tory ; "you were sorry you could not make 
me a return, but you wish me " what, without 
you, I never can obtain, "you wish me all 
kind of happinese. •' It would be weak and 
unmanly to tay, tSSat without you I never caa 
be happy ; but sure I am, that sharing life 
with jou, would have given it a relish, that, 
wanting you, I never can taste. 

Your uncommon personal advantages, and 
your superior good sense, do not so much 
strike me ; these, possibly in a few instancest 
may be met with in others ; but that amiable 
goodness, that tender feminine softness, that 
endearing sweetness of disposition, with all the 
charming offspring of a warm feeling heart — 
these I never again expect to meet with in such 
a degree iu this world. All these charming 
qualities, heightened by an education much be- 



yond a 



Mhin 



I have 






dared to approach, have mads 
on my heart that I do not think 
the world can ever eftace. My imagination 
has fondly flattered itself with a wish, I dare 
not say it ever reached a hope, that possibly I 
' ;ht one day call you mine. I had formed 
most delightful images, and my fancy fond- 
ly brooded over them ; but now..I am wretched 
for the loss of what I really had no right to 
I must now think no more of you as 
ss, still I presume to nsk to he odmit- 
friend. as such J -is!i tu be allowed 



li 



BURKS. -LETTEltS. 



to wnit on jon, nnd as T expect to remove in 
a tew da^a a iiu!c tart^i* r ub, and jou , 1 siip- 
puse, wiU perhaps soou leave tliis place, I wish 
to see you or hear trom you soon ; and if au 
expression should perhaps escape me rather 
too warm for friendship, 1 hope you will par- 
don it in, my dear Miss , (pardon ine 

the dear e^^presiiion for once). , . 



TO MR JOHN MURDOCH, 
SCHOOLMASTER, 

8TAPLB8 ISN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 

DEAR SIR, Lochlee, l&th January, 1783. 
As I have an opportunity of sending you a 
letter, without putting you to that expense 
■which any production of mine would but ill 
repay, I embrace it with pleasure, to tell yoa 
that I have not forgotten, nor ever w ill forget, 
the many obligations i lie under to your kind- 
ness and friendship. 

I do not doubt. Sir, but you will wish to 
know what has been the result of all the pains 
vt' an indulgent father, and a masterly teacher; 
and I wish 1 could gratify your curiosity with 
such a recital as you would be pleased with ; 
but that is what i am afraid will not be the 
case. I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of 
vicious habit* ; and in this respect, I hope my 
touduct will not disgrace the education X have 
gotten ; but as a man of the world, 1 am most 
miserablv deficient. — One would have tnought, 
that bred as 1 have been, under a father who 
has figured pretty well as nn homtne des ajj'aires, 
I might have been what the world calls a push- 
ing, active fellow ; but, to tell you the truth. 
Sir, there is hardly any thing more my reverse. 
I seem to be one sent into the world to see, 
and observe ; and I very easily compound with 
the knave who tricks me of my money, if 
there be any thing original about him which 
shows me human noture in a diflerent light 
from any thing I have seen before. In short, 
the joy of my heart is to ♦* study men, their 
manners, and their ways ; " and for this darling 
buijject, 1 cheerfully sacrifice every other con- 
sideration. I am quite indolent about those 
great concerns that set the bustling busy sons 
of care agog j and if I have to answer for the 
present hour, I am very easy with regard to 
any thing further. Even the last, worst shift* 
of the unfortunate and the wretched, does not 
much terrifv me < 1 know that even then my 
tEleut for what country folks call "a sensible 
crack," when once it i^ sanctified by a hoary 
bead, would procure me so uiuch esteem, that 
even then— 1 would learn to be happy. How- 
ever, I am under no apprehensions about that ; 
for, though indolent, yet, so far as an extreme- 
ly delicate constitution permits, lam not lazy ; 
and in aiony things, especially in tavern mat- 
ters, I am a strict economist ; not indeed for 
the wke of the money, bat one of the principal 



p.irts in my composition is a kind of pride •>f 
siouiach, and 1 scorn to fear the face of any 
man living : above every thing, 1 abhor as hell, 
the idea, of sneaking in a corner to avoid a duE 
—possibly some pUifnl, sordid wretch, who in 
my heart 1 despise and detest. 'Tis this, and 
this alone, that euUears economy to me. In 
the matter of books, indeed, 1 am very profuse. 
Sly lavourite authors are of the sentimental t 
kind, such as Iihe7ist07ie, particularly his Ete- 
gies; Thomson; Man of Ftelmg, a book 1 
prize next to the Bible ; Idan of tJie World ; 
atevTie, especially his Sentivwntal Journey; 
Macpherson's Ossian, <j-c. Ihese are the 
glorious models after which I endeavour to 
form my conduct ; and 'tis incongruous, 'tis 
absurd, to suppose that the man whose mind 
glows with sentiments lightened up at their 
sacred ilame— the maa whose heart distends 
with benevolence to all the human race— he 
" who can soar above this little scene of 
things, "can he descend to mind the paltry con- 
cerns about which the terrasfilial race fret, and 
fume, and vex themselves ? O how the glorious 
triumph swells my heart 1 1 forget that 1 am 
a poor insignificant devil, unnoticed and un- 
known, stalking up and down fairs and mar- 
kets, when 1 happen to be in them, reading a 
page or two of mankind, and "catching the 
manners living as they rise, ' ' whilst the men of 
business jostle me on every side as an idle en- 
cumbrance in their way. -But I dare say I 
have by this time tired your patience ; so I 
shall conclude with begging you to give Mrs 
Murdoch — not my compliments, for that is a 
mere common -place story, but — my warmest, 
kindest wishes for her welfare { and accept <tf 
the same for yourself^ irom. 

Pear Sir, 

Yours, &CS,' 



On rummaging over some old papers, 1 light- 
ed on a MS. of my early years, in which Ihad 
determined to write myself out, as I was placed 
by fortune among a class of men to whom my 
ideas would have been nonsense. I had 
meant that the book should have lain by me, 
in the fond hope that, some time or other, even 
after I was no more, my thoughts would fall 
into the hands of somebody capable of appre- 
ciating their value. It sets off thus I 

Observations, Hints, Sonj^s, Sci-aps of Poe- 
try, <^c by R. B. — a man who had little art in 
making money, and still less in keeping it ; but 
was, however a man of some sense, and a great 
deal of honesty, and unbounded good-will to 
every creature, rational and irratiouoL As he 
was but little indebted to scholastic education, 
and bred at a plough- tail, his performances must 
be strongly tinctured with his unpolished rustic 
way of life ) bat as 1 believe ihey are reellj 
hit oifn, it may be soma entertainment to « 
curious observer of human nature, to see how 
a ploughman thinks and feels, under the pre»'' 



like cares and {tassiuiu, 



, anxiety, gi 
I, whisk, hi 



lowtTcr itiTt^. 



DIAMOND CAr;ir\ET LIBRARY. 



sifi.'J by !he m^des and imnnery .)f life, operate 
prelt.v aiucb alike, I be.ievf on all the species. 
"There are numbers in the world who do 
not want sense to make a fijrure, so much as 
an opinion of their own abilities, to put ibem 
upon recording their observations, and allowing 
tbem the same importance nbich they do to 
those which appear in print. " — Sheustone, 

" Pleasing, when youth is \oag expired, to trace 
■ The forms our pencil, or our pen dssigrned ! 

Such was our youthful air, and sliape, and face, 
, Such the soft image of our jouthful mind. 



>akness 

it leads a young inexperienced mind into ; sill 
I think it in a great measure deserves the high- 
est encomiums that have been passed on it. If 
any thing on earth deserves the name of rapture 
or transport, it is the feelings of green eighteen, 
in the company of the mistress of his heart, 
when she repays him witii an equal return of 
b&\ctioa. 



love, and i 


iu<ip 


and pjetr 


y ; and, ih'" 


refjre. 


I have alwa 


ys lb 


ought a tin 


'=■ touch of L 


atare, 


tliat passage 




modern lov 


e composiiio 





For my own part, I never had the least 
thought or inclination of turnmj poet, (ill I 
got once heartily in love ; and then rhyme and 
song were, in a manner, the SDontaneous lan- 
guage of my heart. 

September. 
I entirely agree with that judicious philoso- 
pher, Mr Smith, in his excellent Theory of 
Moral SeniimerJs, that remorse is the most 
painful sentiment that can embitter the human 
bosom. Any ordinary pitch of fortitude may 
bear up tolerably well, under those calamities, 
in the procurement of which we ourselves have 
had no hand ; but when our follies or crimes 
Lave made us miserable and wretched, to bear 
up with manly firmness, and at the same time 
have a proper penitential sense of our miscou- 
iuci, is a glorious effort of self-command. 






deed of a 



Beyond comparisor 

That to our folly oi 

In every other circi 

Has this to say—' 

Hut when to all the evil of misfortune 

This sting is added — "Blame thy foolish self! " 

Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 

Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others; 
The young, the innocent, who fondly loved us. 
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin ! 
O burning bell ! in ail thy store of torments, 
There's not a keener lash ! 
liives there a man so firm, who, while his 
heait 



Feels all the bitter h^yrors of his criae, 
Can reason down i.s agonizing throbs ; 
And, after proper purpose of amendment, 
Can tirmly force his jarring thoughts to peac*I 
O, happy! happy J enviable man ! 
O glorious magnanimity of soul ! 

March, 1784. 

I have often observed, in the course of my 
experience of human life, that every man, even 
the worst, hus something good about him ; 
though very often nothinpr else than a happy 
temperament of constitution inclining him to 
this or that virtue. For this reason, no man 
cm say in what degree any other person, be- 
sides hmself, can be, with strict justice, called 
wicked. Let any of the strictest character for 
regularity of conduct among us, examine im- 
partially how many vices he has never been 
guilty of, not from any cure or vigilance, but 
for want of opportunity, or some accidental 
circumstance intervening ; how many of the 
weaknesses of mankind he has escaped, be. 
cause he was out of the line of such tempta- 
tion ; and, what often, if not always weighs 
more than all the rest, how much he is indebt- 
ed to the world's good opinion, because the 
world does not know all ; I say, any man who 
can thus think, will scan the failings, nay, the 
faults and crimes, of mankind around him, 
wiih a brother's eye. 

I have often courted the acquaintance of 
that part of mankind commonly known by the 
ordinary phrase of 6?ac/;giiards, sometimes far- 
ther than was consistent with the safety of my 
character ; those who, by thoughtless prodiga- 
lity or headstrong passions, have been driven 
to ruin. Though disgraced by follies, nay, 
sometimes " stained with guilt, • • • •"• 
• • • ." I have yet found among (hem, 
in not a few instances, some of the noblest 
virtues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested 
friendship, and e-ven modesty. 

JpHL 
As I am what the men of the world, if they 
knew such a man, would call a whimsical mor- 
tal, i have \arious sources of pleasure and en- 

myself, or some here and there such other out- 
of-the-way person. Such is the peculiar plea- 
sure I take in the season of winter, more than 
the rest of the year. This, I believe, may be 
partly owing to my misfortunes giving my 
mind a melancholy east ; but there is something 
eveu in th 

" Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste 
Abrupt and deep, stretch *d o'er the buried 
earth, 

hich raises the mind to a serious sublimity, 
vourable to every thine great -and noble. 
There is scarcely any earthly object gives me 
—I do not know if I should call it plea- 
-but something which exalts me, some- 
thing which enraptures me — than to walk in 
the sheltered side of the wood, or high planta- 
in a cloudy winter-day, and hear tiie 
stormy wind howling among the trees, and 
g over the plain. It is my best season 
for devotion : my mind is wrapt up in a kind 
of enthusiasm to Him, who, in the pompous 
language of the Hebrew bard, " walks on the 



BURNS — LETTERS. 



■wings of the wi 
ja»; titier a tra 
tiie foUowiug : 

The wintr we 



Shenstone finely observes, that love-\( 
writ without any real passion, are the 
nauseous ut' all couceits ; and I have 
thought that uo mau can be a proper critic of 
love-compositioQ, except he himself, in 



have 



otar^ I 



this passion. As I have been ail along 
miserable dupe to love, and have been led into 
& thousand weaknesses and follies bj it, for 
that reason 1 put the more coulidence in my 
critical skill, iu distinguishms' joppery, and 
conceit, froui real passion and nature. Whether 
the following song will stand the test, i will 
I'.ot pretend to say, because it is uiy own ; only 
i can say it was, at the time, genuine from the 



I think the whole species of young men 
may be naturally enough divided into two 
grand classes, which 1 shall call the grave and 
the merry ; though, by the bye. these terms do 
not with propriety enough express my ideas. 
'1 he grave 1 shall cast into the usual division 
of those who are goaded on by the love of 
money; and those whose darling wish is to 
make a figure in the world, 'ihe merry are, 
the men of pleasure of all denominations ; the 
jovial lads, who have too much fire and spirit 
to have any settled rule of action ; but with- 
out much deliberation, follow the strong im- 
pulses of nature ; the thoughtless, the careless, 
the indolent— in particular ht, who, with a 
happy sweetness of natural temper, and a 
tbeerful vacancy of thought, steals through life 
— generally, indeed, in poverty and obscurity ; 
but poverty and obscurity are only evils to him 
who can sit gravely down and make a repining 
comparison between his own situation and that 
of others ; and lastly, to grace the quorum, such 
as are, generally, those whose heads are capable 
of all the towerings of genius, and whose hearu 
are warmed with all the delicacy of feeling. 

As the grand end of human life is to culti- 
vate an intercourse with that Being to whom 
we owe life, with every enjoyment that can 
fender life delightful ; and to maintain an in- 
tegritive conduct towards our fellow-creatures ; 
that so, by forming piety and virtue into habit, 
we may be tit members for that society of the 
pious and the good, which reason and revela- 
tion teach us to expect beyond the grave : I 
do not see that the turn of mind, and pursuits 
of any son of poverty and obscurity, are in the 
least more inimical to the sacred interests of 
piety and virtue, than the, even lawful, bustling 
and straining after the world's riches and hon- 
ours ; and I do not see but that he may gain 
Heaven as well (which, by the bye, is no mean 
consideration), who steals through the vale of 
life, amusing himself with every little flower 
thai fortune throws in his way ; as he who, 
strHiniiig straight forward, and perhaps bespat- 
tering ail about aim, gains souie of life's little 



liere, after all, he can only see. 
and be seen, a little more conspicuously, ihau 
what, iu the pride of h.s heart, he is api to 
term the poor, indolent devil he has left behiirf 
him. 

There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting 
tenderness, in some of our anc.ent ballads, 
which shows them to be the work of amaiterl) 
hand : and it has oiten given me manv a heart- 
ache to reflect, that such glorious old bards- 
bards who very probably owed all their talents 
to native genius, yet have described the ex- 
ploits of heroes, the pangs of disappointment, 
and the ineltijigs of love with such tne 
strokes of nature -that their very names (O 
how mortifying to a bard's vanity':) are now 
"buried among the wreck of things which 

O je illustrious names unknown ! who could 
feel so strongly and describe so well ; the lait, 
the meanest of the mu=es' train— one who, 
though far inferior to your flights, jet ejes 
vour path, and with trembling wing would 
Sometimes soar after you — a poor rustic baij 
unknown, pay this sympathetic pang to jour 
memory I bouie of you tell us, w ilh all the 
charms of verse, that you have been unfortu- 
nate in the world— unfortunate in love ; he too 
has felt the loss of his little fortune, the loss of 
friends, and, worse than all, the loss of the wo- 
man he auored. Like you, all his consolation 
was his muse ; she taught him in rustic mea- 
sures to complain, iiappy could he have done 
it with your strength of imagination and flow 
of verse! JWay the turf he lightly on jour 
bones ! and may you now enjoy that solace and 
rest which this world selcom gives to the 
heart, tuned to all the fetjiugs of poesy ai.d 
love ! 

This is all worth quoting in my MSS. and 
more thau ail. 

R. B. 



TO MR AIKEN. 



SIR, Ayrshire, 1786. 

I was with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, 
and settled all our by-gone matters between 
us. After I had paid him all demands, I made 
him the ofi'er of th"? second edition, on the 
hazard of being paia out of the first and rea- 
diest, which he declines. By his account, the 
paper of a thousand copies would cost about 
twenty-seven pounds, aiid the printing aboi.t 
fifteen or sixteen : he otiers to agree to this 
for the printing, if I will advance for the paper ; 
but this you know, is out of my power ; so 
farewell hopes of a second edition till I grov7 
richer! — an epocha whic'i, I think, will 
arrive at the payment of the liritish national 
debt. 

There is scarcely any thing hurts me so 
much in being disappointtd of my seconii edi- 
tion, as not having it in nij power to show iny 
grat.tude to hit Bailautjue, i,j pubiishmg lu^ 



86 



DIAMOND CABINET LirsRARY. 



poem of The. Brigf of Ayr. I would detesi 
myself as a wr.'tch, if I thought 1 were capa- 
ble, iu a very long life, of forgetting the honest, 
^vartn,and tender delicacy with which he enter; 
into my interests. I am sometimes pleased 
with myself in my grateful sensations ; but I 
believe, on (he whole, I have very little i 
iu it, as my gratitude is not a virtue, the 
sequence of reiieciion, but sbeerly the instinc- 
tive emotion of a heart too inattentive to a" 
worldly maxims and views to settle into selhsh 

1 have been feeling all the irarious rotations 
and movements within, respecting the ex 
There are many things plead strongly against 
it; the uncertainty of getting soon"" into bii^f 
ness, the consequences of my follies, whic 
may perhaps mal^e it impracticable for me f 
stay at home ; and besides, I have for som 
time been pining under secret wretchedness 
from causes whic-h you pretty well know — th 
pang of disappointment, the sting of pride, 
with some wandering stabs of remorse, which 
never fail to settle oa my vitals like vultui 
when attention is not called away by the calls 
of society or the vagaries of the "muse. Even 
in the hour of social mirth, my gaiety is the 
madness of an intoxicated criminal under the 
hands of the executioner. Ail these reasons 
urge me to go abroad : and to all these reasons 
I have only one answer — the feelings of a 
father. This, in the present mood I am in, 
overbalances everything that can be laid in the 
scale against it. 

Yon may perhaps think it an extravagant 
fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes home 
to my very soul : though sceptical in some 
points, oi our current belief, yet, I think, I 
have every evidence for the reality of a life be- 
yond the stinted bourne of our present exis- 
tence : if so, then how should I, iu the pre- 
sence of that tremendous Being, the Author 
of existence, how should I meet the reproaches 
of those who stand to me in the dear relation 
of children, whom I deserted iu the smiling 
innocency of helpless infancy ? 0, thou great 
unknown Power! thou Almighty God! who 
liast lighted up reason in my breaoi, and blessed 
me with immortality ! 1 have frequently wan- 
dered from that order and regularity necessary 
for the perfection of thy works, yet thou has't 
never left me nor forsaken me 1 

Sinee I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have 
seen something of the storm of mischief thick- 
ening over my folly-devoted head. Shouid 
you, my friends, my benefactors, be successful 
in your applications for me, perhaps it may not 
be in my power in that way to reap the fruit 
of your friendly efforts. What I have written 
in the preceding pages is the settled tenor of 
my present resolution ; but should inimical 
circumstances forbid me closing with your kind 
offer, or, enjoying it, only threaten to entail 
farthw miserj — 

. To tell the tratb, 1 have little reason for 
this last complaint, as the world, in general, 
has been kind to me, fully op to my deserts. 
I was, for «ome time past, fast getting into the 
pining distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I 
t&v, mjoelf alone, unlit for the struigle of life, 
biiriakiu^ u ererj rising cloud iu the chauce- 



b1] dft 



directed atmosphere of fortune, whil<>, 
fenceless, I looked about in vain for a cover. 
It never occurred to me, at leasi never with the 
force it deserved, that this world is a hu»y 
scene, and man a creature destined for a pro- 
gressive struggle ; and that, however I might 

(which last, by the bye, was rather more than 
I could well boast,) still, more than these pas- 
sive qualities, there was something to be iloiie. 
When all my school-fellows and youthful com- 
peerB (those misguided few excepted, \slio 
joined, to use a Geuloo phrase, the .'lallachorfs 
of the human race), were striking off with 

other of the many paths of busy life, I was 
" standing idle in ihe market place. " or only 
left the chase of the butterlly from flower to 
flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. 

You see. Sir, that if to knnic one's errors 
were a probabili'y of meiiditig them, I stand a 
fair chance; but, according to the reverend 
Westminster divines, though conviction must 
precede conversion, it is very far from always 
implying it.* 



No. VIII. 

TO MRS DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. 

MADAM, Ayrshire, 1786. 

I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, 
when I was so much honoured with your order 
for my copies, and incomparably more by the 
handsome compliments you are pleased to pay 
my poetic abilities. 1 am fully persuaded that 
there is not any class of mankind so feelingly 
alive to the titiilations of applause as the sons 
of Parnassus ; nor is it easy to conceive huw 
the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, 
when those whose character in life gives them 
a right t< 
their approbatio 
acquainted with me, Madam, yon could no't 
have touched my darling heart-chord more 
sweetly than by noticing my attempts to cele- 
brate your illustrious ancestor, the Saviour ej 
fits Country. 

' Great, patriot hero I ill requited chieT* 

The first book I met with in my eaily years, 
which I peru».>d with pleasure, was Tke Life 
of Haniwxil : the next was Tfie Hhtort, of Sir 
Willinm Wallace; for several of my earlier 
years 1 had few other authors ; and" many a 
solitary hour have I stole out, after the laborv 
ons vocations of the day, to shed a tear over 
their glorious but unfortunate stories. In 
those boyisli days I remember, in particular, 
being struck with that part of WallRCe '» story 
where these lines occur— 



* This letter wa» evidently writ' 
the distress of mind occasioned by c 
separation from Mr* Burns. 



UURNS.— LETTERS. 



I choee a fine summer Sunday, the only day 
my line of life allowed, and walked half a dozen 
of mUet to pay my respects to the Leglen 
wood, with as much devout enthusiasm as ever 
pilgrim did to Loretto ; and, as I explored 
every den and dell where I could suppose my 
heroic countryman to have lodged. I recollect 
(for even then I was a rhymer), that my heart 
glowed with a wish to be able to make a song 
oil him in some measure equal to his merits. 



TO MRS STEWART OF STAIR. 

MADAM, 1786. 

The hurry of my preparations for going abroad 
has hindered me from performing my promise 
so soon as I intended. I have here se.ut you a 
parcel of songs, &c. which never made their 
appearance, except to a friend or two at most. 
Perhaps some of them may be tio great enter- 
tainment to you : but of that 1 am far from 
being an adequate judge. The song to the tune 
of Ettrick Banks, you will easiily see the impro- 
priety of exposing much even in manuscript. 
I think, mjseif, it has some merit, both as a 
tolerable description of one of Nature's sweetest 
scenes, a July evening, and one of the iinest 
pieces, of Nature's workmanship, the ilntst 
indeed we know any thing of, an amiable, 
beautiful young woman ;»■ but I have no com- 
mon friend to procure me that permission, with- 
out which I would not daie to spread the copy. 

I am quite aware, madam, what task the 
world would assign me in this letter. The 
obscure bard, when any of the great condescend 
to take notice of him, should heap the altar 
with the incense of flattery. Their high an- 
cestry, their own great and godlike qualities 
and actions, should be recounted with the most 
exaggerated description. This, madam, is a 
task for which 1 am altogether uniit. Besides 
a certain disqualifying pride of heart, I know 
nothing of your connections in life, and have 
no access to where your real character is to be 
found — the company of your compeers : and 
more, I am afraid that even the most refined 
adulation is by no means the road to your good 
opinion. 

Ons feature of your character I shall ever 
•with grateful pleasure remember— the recep. 
tion 1 got, when I had the honour of waiting 
on you at Stair. I am little acquainted with 
politeness ; but I know a good deal of benevo- 
lence of temper and goodness of heart. Sure- 
ly, did those in exalted stations know how 
happy they could make some classes of their 
inferiors by condescension and affability, they 
would never stand so high, measuring out with 
every look the height of their elevation, but 
condescend as Bweetiy as did Mrs Stewart of 
Stair, f 



* Miss A 

f The soBg incloited is that given in the Lil 
of our Poet, beginning, 
1'wa« e en— the dewy fields were greeu, iic 



DR BLACRLOCK 



THE REVEREND MR G. LOWRIE. 

HEVEKETSTJ AND DKAR SIR, 

I ought to have acknowledged your favour low* 
ago, not only as a testimony of your kind tiT 
membrance, but as it gave me an opportunitj 
"sharing one of the finest, and, perhaps, oi:.- 



f the n 



t genui 






the human mind is susceptible. A number of 
avocations retardad my progrss* in reading the 
poems ; at last, however, I have finished that 
pler.sing perusaL >iany instances have 1 seen 
of Nature's force and beneficence exerted under 
numerous and formidable disadvantages ; but 
none equal to that with which you have been 
kind enough to present me. There is a pathos 
and delicacy in his serious poems, a vein of 
wit and humour in those of a more festive turn, 
which cannot be too much admired, nor too 
warmly approved ; and I think I shall never 
open the book withont feeling my astoubhnient 
renewed and increased. It was my wish to 
have expressed my approbation in verse ; but 
whether from declining life, or a temporary 
depression of spirits, it is at present out of my 
power to accomplish that agreeable intention. 

Mr Stewart, Professor of Morals in this 
Universitj-, had formerly read me three of the 
poems, and i had desired him to get my name 
inserted among the subscribers ; but whether 
this was done, or not, I never could learn. I 
have little intercourse 'with Dr Blair, but will 
take care to have the poems communicated t« 
him by the intervention of some mutual friend. 
It has been told me by a gentleman, to whom 
1 showed the performances, and who sought a 
copy with diligence and ardour, that the whole 
impression is already exhausted. It were, 
therefore, much to be wished, for the sake of 
the yonng man, that a second edition, more 
numerous than the former, could immediatily 
be printed ; as it appears certain that its inirin 
sic merit, and the exertion of the author's 
friends, might give it a more universal circula- 
tion tliaii any tiling of the kind which has been 
published witbin my memory.^ 



No. XL 

FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFORD. 

Sir, Edmburgh, ith Decemher, 1788, 

I received your letter a few days ago. I do 
not pretend to much interest, but what I have 
I shall be ready to exert in procuring the at- 

% The reader -will perceive that this is the 
letter which produced the determination of our 
Bard to give up his scheme of going to the 
West Indies, and to trj- the fate of a new edi- 
tion of his poems in Edinburgh. A cop) of 
this letter was sent by Mr Lowrie to Mr G. 
Hamilton, and by him communicated to Biurus, 
among whose papers it was found. 



88 



DU.VIOM) CABINET LIBRARY^ 



tainraent of any objecnrou have in view. Your 
character as a man (forgive my reversing jour 
order), as well as a poei, entitie you, I 
think, to the assistance of every inhabitant of 
Ayrshir*. I havs been told you wished to be 
made a gauger ; I submit it to your considera- 
tion, whether it would not be more desirabh 
if a sum couid be raised by subscription, for 
second edition of your poems, to lay it out i 
the stocking of a small farm. I am persuaded 
it would be a Hue of life much more agreeable 
to your feelings, and in the end more satisfac- 
tory. When yoa have considered this, let me 
know, and whatever you determine upon, I 
■will endeavour to promote as far as my abili- 
ties will permit. With compliments to my 
friend the doctor, I am. 

Your friend and well-wisher, 

JOHN WHITEFORD. 



No. XLL 

FROM . 

DRAR SIR, 22d December, 17S5. 

I last week received a letter from Dr Black* 
lock, in which he expresses a desire of seeing 
you. I write this to you, that you may lose no 
time in waiting upon him, should you not yet 

I rejoice to hear, Trotn all corners, of your 
rising fame, and I wish and expect it may 
tower still higher by the new publication. 
But, as a friend, I warn you to prepare lo 
meet with your share of detraction and euvy — 
a train that always accompany great men. 
For your comfort, I am in great "hopes that the 
number of your friends and admirers will in- 
crease, and that you have some chance of 

ministerial, or even patronage. 

Now, my friend, such rapid success is very 
uncommon ; and do you think yourself in no 
danger of suffering by applause and a full 
purse? Remember Solomon's advice, which 
he spoke from experience, •'stronger is he 
that conquers," &c. Keep fast hold of your 
rural siuiplicity and purity, like Telemachus. 
by Mentor's aid, in Calypso's isle, or even in 
that of Cyprus. I hope you have also Minerva 
with you. I need not tell you how much 
a modest diffidence and invincible temperance 
adorn the most shining talents, and elevate the 
mind, and exait and retine the imagination 

I hope you will not imagine I speak from 
•nsnicion or evil report. 1 assure you I speak 
from love and good report, and good 



and a 



1 the Bi 



Lshin 



.as yoi 






ilbe 



much 



nthe fr 

virtue. This is my prayer, in return for yoar 
el.'gaxit composition in verse. All here Join in 
complimems, and good wishes for your further 
prosperity. 



No. XIII. 
TO MR CHALMERS. 

Edinbursh. 27lh Dee. 1796. 

MV DEAR FRIBSfD, 
I cocfess I have sinned the sin for which 
there is hardly any forgiveness — ingtititude to 
friendship — in not writing you sooner ; but of 
all men living, I had intended to send you an 
entertaining letter; and by all tbe plodding, 
stupid powers, that in nodding conceited iisa 
jesty preside over the dull routine of business 
— a heavily solemn oath this ! — I am, and have 
been ever since I came to Edinburgh, as untit 
to write a letter of humour as to write a com- 
mentary on the Revelatioiu, 

To make yon some amends for what, before 
you reach this paragraph, you will have sutt'er- 
1, I inclose you two poems I have carded 
ad spun since I passed Glenbuck. One blank 

1 the address to Edinburgh, '< Fair B . ' 

is tbe heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord 
Monboddo, at whose house I have had the 
honour to be more than once. There has not 
been any tbiug nearly like her, in all the com- 
binations of beauty, grace, and goodness, the 
great Creator ha? formed, since Milton's Eve 
n the first day of her existence. 
I have sent you a parcel of subscription-bills, 
and have written to Mr Ballentine and Mr 
Aiken, to call on you for some of them, if they 
m. My direction is — Care of Andrew 
Bruce, merchant. Bridge Street, 



TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON. 

MV LORD, Edinburgh, January, 17S7. 
s I have but sleuder pretensions to philoso- 
phy, I cannot rise to tbe exalted ideas of a 
citizen of the world ; but have all those na- 
tional prejudices which, I believe, glow pecu- 
liarly strong in the breast of a Scotsman. 

e is scarcely any thing to which I am so 

igly aiive, as the honour and welfare of 
my country ; and, as a poet, I have no higher 
enjoyment than singing her sons and daugh 
ters. Fate had cast my station in the veriest 
shades of life ; but never did a heart pant 
ardently thaB mine, to be distinguished : 
though, till very lately, I looked in vain on every 
side for a ray of light. It is easy, then, to 

i how much I was gratified with the coun- 
tenance and approbation of one of my country '9 
most illustrious sons, when Mr Wauchope 
called on me yesterday, on the part of your 
lordship. Your mumticence, my lord, car. 
liy deserves my very grateful acknowledg- 
its ; but your patronage is a bounty pecu- 
liarly suited to my feelings. I am not roaster 

gh of the etiquette of life to know whether 
there be not souie impropriety in trouDling 
your lordship with my thanks ; but my heart 
whispered me to do lU From the emotions 
of mj inmost soul 1 do it. Selfish ingratitude, 
' hope, 1 am incapable of; end mercenary tier* 



BURNS — LETTERS. 



S9 



St, I sliall ever have so much hoD- 



TO MRS DUNLOP, 

MADAM, Edinburgh, January 15, 1787. 
Yours of the 9th current, which 1 am this 
moment honoured with, is a deep reproach to 
me toi angratet'ul neglect. I will tell you the 
real truth, for 1 am miserably awkward at a 
tJb : I wished to have written to I)r Mocre 
before I v 
since I re 

idea, the wish to write hin 
pressed on my thoughts, y 
my soul set about it. 1 kii 
character, and 1 am one of ' 



us of lit 
r-of i: 



aftair, like a merchant's order, would bed 
gracing the little character 1 have ; and to write 
the author of 2'he Vitu- of Society a/id Man- 
ners a letter of sentiment — I declare every 
artery runs cold at the thought. I shall try, 
however, to write him to-morrow or next day. 
His kind interposition in my behalf 1 have al- 
ready experienced, as a gentleman waited on 
me the other day, on the part of Lord Eglin- 
ton, with ten guineas by way of subscription 
for two copies of my next edition. 

The word you object to in the mention I 
have made of my glorious couutryi 



ndeed borrowed 
does not strike me as 
istrusted my own 



• immortal 
trom Thomson ; but : 
3n improper epithet, 
pdgment on your tinding fault 
plied for the opinion of some of the Literati 
here, who honour me with their critical stric- 
tures, and they all allow it to be proper. The 
soiig vou ask i cannut recollect, and 1 have not 
a copy of it. 1 hiive not composed any thing 
on the great Wa lace, except what yo'u have 
seen in print, and the inclosed, which I wiU 
print in this edition.* lou will see I have 
mentioned some others of the name. 'When I 
composed my Vision, lon^ ago, 1 had attempt- 
el a description of Kyle, of which the addi- 
tional stanzas are a part, as it originally stood. 
My heart glows with a wish to be able to do 
s of the Havtour of his 



mpt. 



ich sooner or later, I shall a 



e afraid I shall grow intoxicated with 
my prosperity as a poet. Ala, < madam, I 
know myself and ihe «orid too well. 1 do not 
mean any airs of atiected niodeaty ; I am will- 
, 'ng to believe that my abilities deserved some 
' notice ; but in a most enlightened, informed 
^ age and nation, when poetry is and has been 
the study of men of the tirst natural genius, 
; aided with all the powers of polite learning, 
; polite books, and polite company — to be drag- 
' ged fortB to the full glare of learned and polite 
observation, with all my imperfections of awk- 
ward rusticity and crude unpolished ideas on 



*■ Stanzas in the Visio7i, beginning third 
Btaiiza, "By stately tower or palacA fail"," 
aiiU ending with the titst duau. 



my head— I assure yon, madam, I do not dis- 
semble when 1 tell you 1 tremble for the con- 
sequences. The novelty of a poet in my ob- 
scure situation, without any of those ad-» iji 
tages which are reckoned necessary for ti;.. 
character, at least at this time of day. haa 
raised a partial tide of public notice, which has 
borne me to a height where I am absolutely, 
feelingly certain, my abilities are inadequate ii, 
support me ; and too surely do 1 see that time 
when the same tide will leave me, and recede, 
perhaps, as tar below the mark of truth. 

Your patronising me, and interesting your- 
self in my fame and character as a poet, 1 re- 
joice in ; It exalts me in my own idea ; and 
whether ycu can, or cannot aid me in mv sub- 
scription is a trifie. Has a paltry subscription- 
bill any charms to the heart of a bard, compar- 
ed with the patronage of the descendant of tbi 
immortal 'W allace ,' 



TO DR WOORfi. 

SIR, 1787. 

Mrs Dunlop has been so kind as to send mt 
extracts of letters she has had from you, where 
yoc Co the ru-tic bard the honour of noticing 
him and his workb. Those who have felt th< 
anxieties and solicitudes of authorship, can 
only know what pleasure it gives to be noticed 
in such a manner by judges of the hrst charac- 
ter. Your criticisnis, sir, I receive with reve- 
rence ; only I am sorry they mostly came too 
laie ; a peccant passage ortwo, that I would 
certainly have altered, were gone to the press. 

The hope to be admired for ages is, in by 
far the greater part of those even who are au- 
thors of repute, an unsutslautinl dream. For 
my part; my tirst ambition was, and still my 
strongest wish is, to please my compeers, the 
rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever-chang- 
ing language and manners shall allow me to be 
relished and um'.erstood. I am very willing to 
admit that I have some poetical abilities ; and 
as few, if any writers, either moral or poetical, 
are intimately acquainted with the classes of 
mankind among whom I have chiefly mingled, 
I may have seen men and manners in a ditier- 
ent phasis from whet is common, which may 
assist originality of thought. Still I know 
very well the novelty of my character has by 
far the greatest share in the learned and polite 
notice I have lately had ; and in a language 
where Pope and Churchill have rtiseo the 
laugh, and Sheustone and Gray drawn the tear 
— where Thomson and Seattle have painted 
the landscape, and Lvttleton and Collins de- 
scribed the heart, 1 an. not vain euougb toliopa 
for distiuguiaiied poetic fame. 



FRO-M DR MOORE. 



nlA^\J^'D cabinet library. 



find I have Vinson to eom plain of my frieud 
Mrs l)i;:ilop foi traiisniitiuig to you extracts 
from mj letters to her, by much too freely aad 
too carelessl) written for \oar perusaL I 
must forg-ive her, however, m consideration of 
her good intention, as you will forgive me, 1 
Lope, for the freedo:n I use with certain ex- 
pressions, in consideration of my admiration 
of the poems in general. If I may judge of 
th« author's disposition from bis works, with 
all the other good qualities of a poet, he has 
not the irrilal'ie temper ascribed to that race 
of men, by one of their own number, whom 
you have the hapjiineas to resemble in ease 
and curious felicity of expression. Indeed the 
poetical beauties, however original and bril- 
liant, and lavishly scattered, are not all 1 ad- 
mire in your works ; the love of your native 
country, that feeling seusibility to 'all the ob- 
jects of humanity, and the independent spirit 
which breathes tnroui-h the whole, give me a 
most favourable impression of tbe poet, and 
have made me often regret that 1 did not see 
the poems, the certain effect of which would 
have been my seeing the author last summer, 
when 1 was longer in Scotland than I have 
been for many years. 

I rejoice very sjicerely at the encourage- 
ment you receive at Ediiibursh, and 1 think 
you peculiarly fortunate in the patronage of 
Dr Blair, who, I am informed, interests him. 
Self very mnch for you. I beg to be remera- 
tered to him : nobody can hare a warmer re- 
gard for that gentleman than I have, which, 
tidepeudeut of the worth of his character. 
Would be kept alive by the memory of 
out common friend, the late Mr George 

Before I received voiir letter, I sent inclosed 
In a letter to '-, a sonnet by Miss Wil- 
liams, a young poetical lady, which she wrote 
on reading your Mountain-Daisy ; perhaps it 
may not displease you.* 

I have been trying to add to the number of 
your subscribers, but I find many of my ac- 
gnaintonce are already among them. I have 
only to add, that » itb every sentiment of e»- 
teeiUf and most cordial good wishes. 



Wliile soon tbe garden's flaunting flowerg <i»- 



ray 
A poet drew from heaven, shall ne»er die. 
Ah, like that lonely flower the poet rose 1 
'Mid penury 'p bare poil and bitter gale ; 
Be felt each stortti that on the tnoontaia 
blows, 
Nor *ver knew the shelter of the \-ale. 
By genius in her native vigour nursed. 

On nature with impassion 'd look be gared ; 
Vhea throcgh the cloud of adverse fortune 
burst 
Indignant, and in light onborrow'd blaeedu 
fe>nia ! from rude allliction shiuld thy bard, 
Ktt befiver>-taii?ht numbers Fame herself 
Will ^uar;L 



TO DR MOORE. 
Edinburgh^ IStA February, 1787. 

REVEKEXD SIR, 
Pardon my seeming neglect in delaying so 
long to acknowledge the honotu yon have don* 
me, in your kind notice of me, January 23d. 
Not many months ago, I knew no other em- 
ployment than following the plough, nor could 
boast any thing higher than a distant ac- 
quaintance with a country clergyman. Mere 
greatness never embarrasses me ; 1 have no- 
thing to ask from the great, end I do not fear 
their judgment; but penins, polished by learn- 
ing, and at its proper point of elevation in the 
eye of the world, this of late 1 frequently meet 
with, and tremble at its approacn. 1 scorn 
the affectation of seeming modesty to cover 
self-conceiu That I have some merit 1 do not 
deny ; but I see with frequent wringings of 
heart, that the novelty of my character, and 
the honest national prejudice of my country- 
men, have borne me to a height altogether 
untenable to my abilities. 

For the honour Miss W. Las done me, 
pleaae, Sir, return her in my name, my most 
grateful thanks. I have more than once 
thought of paying her in kind, but have 
hitherto quitted the idea in hopeless despon- 
dency. 1 had never before heard of her: but 
the other day I got her poems, which, for 
several reasons, some belongint,- to the head, 
and others the offspring of the heart, give me a 
great deal of pleasure. I have little preten- 
sions to critic lore: there are, I think, two 
characteristic features in her poetry — the un- 
fettered wild flight of native geniu'g, aiio the 
qneruloos, somlnre tenderness cf " time-settled 



No. XIX. 
FROM DR MOORE. 
aiffi>rd Street, iSih Fdnruary, 1787.' 

DEAH SIR, 

Your letter of the 15th gare rae a great deal of 
pleasure. It is not surprising that yon improve 
in correctness and taste, considering irhere 
you have been for some time past. And 1 dare 
swear there is no danger of yoor admitting any 
polish which might weaken the vigour of ?our 
native powers. 

I am glad to perceive that yor disdain the 
nauseous aii'ectatioa of decrying your own 
merit as a poet — an affectaton which is dis- 
played with most ostentation by those who 
have the greatest share of self-conceit, and 
which only adds undeceiring falsehood to dis- 
gusting vanity. For you to deny the merit 
of your poems would be arraigning the faei 
opinion of the public 

As the new edition of my Viete of Societj^ 
is not yet ready, I have sent you the former 
edition, which, 1 beg yon will accept aa a 



BURNS. _LE ITERS. 



91 



small marK of aiy esteem. It is sent bj sea, 
to the care of Mr Creech ; aiid, along wiih 
these four volumes for jourself, I have also 
sent my Medical Sketches, iu one volume, for 
my friend Mrs Dunlop of Dunlop ; this jou 
will be so obliging as to trausmit, or, if you 
chaiice lopass.-soou by Dunlop, to give to ker. 
1 am happy to hear that your subscription is 
so ample, and shall rejoice at every piece of 
good fortune that befalls you : for you are h verj 
great fa\ourite in my family ; and ihis is a 
higher compliment than perhaps yuu areaware 
of. It includes alnioi-t all the professions, aiui 
of course is a proof that your vr tings are 
adapted to various tastes and situations. 5iy 
youngest son, v.ho is at ^V iiichester school, 
writes to me that he is translating some stanzas 
of your Hcilloice'en into Latin verse, for the 
beoeht of his comrades. This union if taste 
partly proceeds, no doubt, Ironi the cement of 
Scottish partiality, vilh which they are all 
somewhat tinctured. Even ],our trcndatoi; 
■who left iscotiajiu too early in life for recollec- 
tion, IS not without it. 



TO THE EARL OF GLENCATEN. 

iiy LORD, Eil:7ibitrs,k, )7b7. 

I wanted to purchase a profile of \uUTiorcship, 
Vihi<Al I was told was to le got in town ; tut 
I am truly sorry to see that a bkiiioer le paint- 
er has spoiled a " human face aivuie. " 'Ihe 
inclosed stanzas 1 intended to ha\e written 
below a picture cr proliie of \our lorciship, 
could I have been so hapjiy as to {n-ocure one 
■*ith any thii'g of a llkene^s. 

As 1 will soon return to my shades, 1 want- 
ed to have something like a nraerial object for 
my gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my power 
to say to a friend. There is my nobla patron, 
my generons benefactor. Allow me, my lord, 
to publish these verses. 1 conjure jour lord- 
ship by tlie honest throe of gratitude, by the 
generous wish of benevolence, by all the powers 
and feelings which compose the magnanimous 
mind, do not deny me this petition.* I owe 
to your lordship ; and what has not in some 
instances always been the ca*e with me, the 
weight of the ollijation is a pleasing load. 1 
trust, 1 have a heart as independent as your 
lordship's, than which I can say nothins more : 
and I would not be Lehoiden to favours that 
would crucify my feelings- Your oigmlied 
character in life, and manner of su(. porting 
that character, are fiatteriu? to my pri»'.e; and 
I would be jeAlous of the purity of my graieiul 
attachment, where I was under the patronage 
of one of the much favoured sons of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, 
particularly when they were names dear to 
fame, and illustrious in their country ; allow 

♦ It doe» not appear that the earl granted 
tills rer|oesi, nor bnve the verses alluded to been 
found itflioiig the ilsS^ 



, then, my lord, if yon think the Terses hav* 
rinsic merit, to tell the world bow much i 
re the honour to be 

Your lordship 's highly indebted. 

And ever graielul huoihie servant* 



Ko. XXL 
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

ai\ I.OKD, 
Tl;e honour your lordship has done me, by your 
notice and adv ee in yours of the 1st insianl, I 
shall ever gratefully renitmier: 



They best can give it who deserve it most. " 

Your lordship touches the darling chord of 
my beart. when you advise me to hre my muse 
at Scottish story and Scottii-h scenes. I wish 
for nothing more than to make a leisurely pil- 
grimage through my native country ; to sit and 
muse en those once hard-contended fields w here 
Caledonia, rejoicing, saw Lcr bloody lion borne 
through broken ranks to victory and fame ; and, 
catching the inspiration, to pour the deathless 
names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of 
these entbusiastic rever es, a long-visaged, dry, 
moral looking phantom strides across my im- 
agination, and pronounces these eniphatie 
words, " I, Wisdom, dwell with prudence," 

This, my lord, is tinanswerable. I must 
return to ni) humble station, and woo my rus- 
tic muse in'aiy wonteil v\ay at the plough-tail. 
Still, my lord', while the drops of life warm my 
heart, gratitude to that dear-loved country in 
which 1 boast my biilh, and gratitude to those 
her distinguished sons, who have honoured me 
so much with their patronage and approbation, 
st>ail, while stealing thrcugh my humMe 
shades, eter distend my bosom, and at times 
draw fonh the swelling tear. 



Ejrt. Property infarmir of Mr Robert Barns, 
Ip erect and ktep up a Heauslone ill mev^m-^ 
of Poet Fergussou, 17b7. 

Setfi&n-fwvee, tcithin the Kirk of Ca- 

ratgnte, the tueiity-stcond day of /•'e- 
bruary, oiie thoiitcvd eeren hundied 
and ex^hty-sevfiL years. 



Which day, the treasurer to the said funds 
produced a letter from Mr Robert Burns, o. 
date th« sixth current, v>hich was read, and 
appointed to be engrossed in their sederunt- 
bock, and of which letter the tenor follow- t 
*• To the hononrable Bailies of Cauougate, 
Edinbureh. Gentlemen, I am sorry to be told 
that the remains of Uobert tergusson, ihe so 
justly celebrated poet, a man whose talents, tor 
ages toTonie, wili do bononr to our Cale<:oiiiaa 
name, lie in your church-yard, among the ig- 
noble deed, unnoticed and unknown. 



92 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



•' Some memorial to direct the steps of the 
lovers of Scottish sons, when they wish to shed 
a tear over the "narrow house" of the bird 
vfho is no more, is surelj a tribate doe to 
Fer?usson's memory: a tribute I wish to have 
the honour cf paying. 

" I petition you, then, Gentlemen, to per- 



) la\ 



raple s 



rered 



ishes, to remain an unalieudble property to his 
deathless fame. I have the honour to be. 
Gentlemen, yoar very hu.nble servant, {sic 
sucsci-ibitur,} '• ROBERT BURNS. " 

sidera- 



Thereafter the said managei 
tion of the laudable and disine 
Mr Buros, and the propriety of his request, 
did, aad hereby do, unanimously grant power 
aad liberty to thJ said Robert Burns to erect 
a headstone at the grave of the said Robert 
FersussoQ, and to keep up and preserve the same 
to his memory in ail time coming. Extracted 
forth of the records of the raanasers, by 

William Sprott, Clerk. 



TO - 



Mr BEAK SIK, 
You may think, and too justly, that I am a 
selfish ungrateful fellow, having received so 
many repeated instances of kindness from you, 
and yet never putting pea to paper to say — 
thank you ; but if vou knew what a devil of a 
life my conscience has led me on that account, 
your good heart would think yourself too much 
avenged. By the bye, (here is nothing in the 
whole frame of man which seems to me so 
unaccountable as that thing called conscience. 
Had the troublesome yelping cur powers effi- 
cient to prevent a mischief, he might be of 
use : but at the bejpnning of the business, his 
feeble efforts are to the workings of passion as 
the infant frosts of an autumnal morning to the 
unclouded fervour of the rising sun : and no 
sooner are the tumultuous doings of the wicked 
deed over, than, am.dst the bitter native con- 
sequences of folly, in the very vortex of our 
horrors, up starts conscience, and harrows us 
•with the feelings of the d . 

I have inclosed ycu, by way of expiation, 
some verse and prose, that, if they merit a 
place in your truly entertaining misceiiany, 
you are welcome to. The prose extract is 
literally as Mr Sprott senl it me. 

The Inscription on the Stone is as follows ; 

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, 



No sculptured marble here, nor pompons lay, 
" No storied urn nor animated bust ;" 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To poar her sorrows o'er her peel's dust. 

On the other side of Use ^toae is asf:Joius ; 



*' By special p-ant of the Managers to R.'bert 
Burns, who erected this stone, this burini-;i:^i;e 
is lo remain for e»er sacred to the meinorj of 
Robert Fergus=o .. " 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM • 

8th March, 1787. 
1 am truly happy to know you have found a 

friend in ; his patronage of you does 

him great honour. He is truly a good man ; 
by far the be.-.t I ever knew, or. perhaps, ever 
sdall know, in this world. But I must nut 
speak all I think of him, lest I should be 
thought partial. 

So you have obtained liberty from the ma- 
gi>;lraies to erect a stone over Fergusson's 
grave? I do not doubt it; such things have 
been, as Shakspeare says, " in iheoldea-time:*' 

mblem shown, 
ceived a stone. " v 

It is, I believe, upon poor Butler's tomb 
that this is written. But how many brothers . 
of Parnassus, as well as poor Hutler and poor '. 
Fergusson, have asked for bread, and been | 
served with the same tauce ! 

The magistrates gat* you liberty, did (hey ? i 
O generous magistrates ! • • " • . celebrated 
over the three kingdoms for his public spirit, 
gives a poor poet liberty to raise a tomb to a 
poor poet's memory I — most generous • • • • ; 
once upon a time, gave that same poet the 
mighty sum of eighteen pence for a copy of 
his works. But then it must be considered 
that the poet was at this time absolutely starv- 
ing, and besought his aid with all the earnest- 
ness of hunger ; and, over and above, he re- 
ceived a worth, at least one-third of 

the -value, in exchange, but which, I believe, 
the poet afterwards very ungratefully expunged. 

Next week I hope to have the pleasure of 
seeing you in Edinburgh ; and as my stay wi]l 

be for eight or ten days, I wish you or 

would take a snu?, weli-aired bedroom for 
me, where I may have the pleasure of seeing 
you over a morning cup of tea. But by all 
accounts, it will be a matter of some difficulty 
to see you at all, unless yoar company is be- 
spoke a week before-hand. There is a great 
rumour here concerning your great intimacy 

with the Duchess of , and other ladies 

of distinction. I am really told that •' cards 
to invite fly by thousands each night;" and, if 
vou had one, I suppose there would also be 
" bribes to vour old secretary." It seems >ou 
are resolved to make hay while the sun shines, 
and avoid, if possible, the fate of poor Ftt- 

gusson, Qacerewia fc- 

cunia primum est, virtus post nummos, is a gooj 
maxim to thrive by I you seemed to despise it 
while in this country ; but probably some phi- 
losopher in Edinburgh has taught you belter 

Pray, are you yet engraving as well as print- 
ing ?— Are y'ou yet seized 



BURNS.— LETTERS. 



S3 



the Aberdeen wit savs, adieu dryly, u.e fal 
arink phcn we meet.* 



Nj. XXV. 
TO MRS DUNLOP. 

MADAM, Blinhcrgh, ilarch 22. 17S7. 
I read ycur letter with watery eyes. A liule, 
Yery little while ago, I had scarce a friend but 
the stnbboryi pride of my Oicn besom ; now 1 am 
distiuiruished. patronized, befriended by you. 
Your friendly advices, I will not give them the 
cold name of criticisms, I receive with reve- 
rence. I ha^e made some small alterations in 
what I before had printe<l. I have the advice 
of some very judicious friends among the lite- 
rati here, but with them I sometimes find it 
necessary to claim the privilege of thinking for 
myself. The noble Earl of Gleucairn, to 
whom I owe more than to any man, does me 
the honour of giving me his strictures : his 
hints with respect to impropriety or indelicacy, 
I follow implicitly. 

You kindly interest yourself in my future 
Tiews and prospects ; there i can give you no 
light ; it is all 

•• Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
\Vas roli'd together, or had tried his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound. ' 

The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far 
my highest pride ; to continue to deserve it is 
my most exal:ed ambition. Scottish scenes and 
Scottish story are the themes I could wish to 
sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in 
mv power, unplagued with the routine of tu-i 
DKs, for which heaven knows I am ur.tit 
enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through 
Caledonia ; to sit on the helds of her battles ; 
to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers ; 
and to muse by the stately towers or vene- 
rable ruins, once the honoured abodes of her 

But these are all Utopian thoushts : I h: 
dallied long enough with life: 'tis time to 
in earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to 
care for ; and some other bosom ties perhaps 
equally tender. Where the individual onij 
sufl'ers bv the consequences of his own thonght- 
leesness, indolence, or folly, he may be escxis 
able : nay, shining abilities, and some of the 
nobler virtues, may half-sanctify a heedli 



character: bi-i where God and nafnre have 
intrusted the v\el are of others to his car"; 
where the trust is sacred, and the ties are ccar, 
that man must be far gone in selnshness, or 
strangely loal to reflection, whom these con- 
nexions will not rouse to exertion. 

1 gaess tr.at I shall clear between two and 
three hundred pounds by my authorship : with 
that sum 1 intend, so tar as I may be said to 
have any intention, to return to my old ac- 
quaintance, the plough, and, if I can meet with 
a lease by which 1 can live, to commence far- 
mer. I do not iuteud to give up poetry : being 
bred to labour secures me independence ; and 
the muses are my chief, sometimes have been 
my only, enjoyment. If my practice second 
my resolution, I shall have principally at heart 
the serious business of life : but while follow- 
ing my plough, or building up my shocks, I 
shall cast a leisure glance ~to that' dear, that 
only feature of my character, which gave me 
the notice of my country and the patronage of 

Thus, honoured madam, I have giren you 
the bard, his situation and his views, native as 
they are in his own bosom. 



No. XXVI. 

TO THE SAME. 

MADAM, Ediriburzh, I5th April, 17S7. 
There is an affectation "of gratitude which I 
dislike. The periods of Johnson and the 
pauses of Sterne may hide a selfish heart. For 
my part, madam, i trust I have too much pride 
for servility, and too little prudence for selfish- 
ness. I have this moment broke open your 
letter, tut 

" Rude am I in speech. 
And therefore little can I grace my cans* 
In speaking for myself — " 

so I shall not tronble you with any fine speeches 
and hunted figures, I shall just lay my hand 
on my heart, and say, I hope I shall ever have 
the truest, the warmest, sense of your good- 

I come abroad in print for certain on 
Wednesday. Your orders I fhall punctually 
attend to ; only, by the way, 1 must tell you 
that 1 was paid before for Dr Moore's and 
Miss W^. 's copies, through the medium of 
Commissioner Cochrane in this place ; but that 
we can settle when 1 have the honour of wal. 



* The above extract is from a letter of one of 
the ablest of our poet's correspondents, which 
ccnlaiiis some interesting anecdotes of Fergi:s- 
soii, that we should have been happy to have 
inserted, if they could have been authenticated. 
Tile vsriier is mistaken in supposing the inagis- 
fratesof Edinburgh had anysharein the transac- 
tion respecting the monument erected for Fer- 
gussoii lij our bard : this, it is evident, passed 
between Burns and the Kirk Session of the Ca- 
nongate. Neither at Edinburgh, nor anywhere 
else, do magistrates usually trouble themselves 
to inquire .low the house of a poor poet is fur- 
oisLed, or hew his grave is aduraed. 



I London th 



No. XXV H. 

TO DR MOCRE. 

EJi-bureh, 23d April, 1787. 
I received the books, and sent the one ym. 
mentioned to .'Nirs Duulop. I am iU-skilier 



\ Adam Suiitli, 



64 



DIAMOND CABilNLT LIBRARY. 



n? I'fa.'inff the coverts of iina^iuation for ineta- 
pliurs ot gratitude, i tiiaiik ^ou, sir, tor the 
nonoar ;ou have done me ; and to iny latest 
hour will warmlj remember iu To he highly 
pleased with your book, as what I have la 
common with the wor.u -. but to regard these 
\oiuuies as a marh ui ihe author s friendly 
esteem, is a still more supreme gratification. 

[ leave Edinbuigh iu the course of ten days 
or a fortnight; aud after a few pilgrimag< 
over some of the clas:^ic ground of Caiedoiiis 
Coioden-Knowes, RajikscJ k'arrotc, Twted, 6-( 
T shall return to m^ rurul shades, ia all likeli- 
nood uever more to (juit tiieiii. 1 have formed 
many intimiicies and frieudships here, but I am 
afraid they are all jf too tender a coustructiou 
to bear carriage a hundred ai.d titty miles. To 
the rich, the greai, the fiish ouubie, the polite, 
I have no equuslent to otler ; and 1 am afraid 
my meteor appearance will by uo means en- 
title loe to a settled correspondence with any 
of yoQ, w ho are the permaueiit lights of genius 
and literature. 

My most respectful compliments to Miss W. 
If once this tangent liight of mine were over, 
and I were returned to my «onted leisurely 
oiotiuu iu my old circle, 1 may procably en- 
deavour to return her poetic couiplimeul in 



BXTRACT OF A Li^TTEH 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

Editdmr^h, 30;A Apnl, 1787. 

very weli, aud could ha\e >vislied lo ha\e pleas- 
ed you belter. \ou are right in juur guess 
that I am not very amenable to counsel, i'oets, 
much my superiors, have so tjattered those 
who possessed the adreatiiious qualities of 
wealth aud power, that I am determiued to 
flutter no created being either iu prose or 

I set as little by , lords, clergy, cri- 
tics, &c aa all these respective gentry do by 
my hardship. I know what i may expect 
from the world by and by— illiberal abuse, aud 
perhaps contemptuous neglect. 

i am happy. Madam, iha: some of my own 
favourite pieces are distinguished by your par- 
ticular approoatioo. For uiy Dream, which 
has unfortunately incurred your loyal displea- 
sure, 1 hope iu four weeks, or less, to have the 
honour ot appearing at Duulop ia itii defence, 
iu person. 



Lawn-Market, Edinburgh, Sd May, 1787, 

KKVKKEND AND MUCH RESPECTED SIB, 

I leave Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but 



patronage, and friendship you ha^e »hown me 
I i.flen fell the embarronsineat ot uij singiilKi 
situation ; drnwn forth fro/u the veriest shades 
of life to the gUre of remark ; and honoureU 
by tlie notice of those illustrious names of my 
country, whose works, while they are applaud- 
ed to the end of time, will ever iui^truct and 
mend the heart. However the nieteor-like 
novelty of my appearance in the world might 
attract notice, aud honour me with tne ac- 
quaintance of the permanent lights of genius 
and literature, those who are truly benefactors 
of the immortal nature of man ; 1 knew very 
well, that my utmost merit was far unequal to 
the task of preserving- that character when ouo« 
the novelty was over. I have made up my 
mind, that abuse, or almost even neglect, will 
not surprise me in my quarters. 

I have sent you a proof impression of Beu- 
go's work for me, done on Indian paper, as a 
trilling-, but sincere testimony with what heart- 
warm gratitude I am, &c. 



No. XXX. 
FROM 1)H iSLAlR. 

Ars:^le. Square, Edinburgh, ilh. May, 1787. 

UKAR ^IK, 
1 was favoured this forenoon with your very 
obliging letter, together with an imi'ressiou of 
jour portrait, for which 1 return you my bist 
thanks. 'Ihe success you have met with 1 dc 
nut think wa* beyond jour merits; aud if 1 
have had any small hand ia contributing to it, 
it gives me great pleasure. 1 know no way in 
which literary persons, who are advanced ia 
years, can do more service to the world, than 
in forwarding the etibrts of rising genius, or 
bringing forth unknown merit from obscurity. 
i was the first person who brought out to the 
notice of tfie world, the poems of Ossian : first 
by the tyagmeuts of Ancitmt Foelry which I 
published, and afterwards, by my setting on 
foot the undertaking for collecting and publish- 
ing the Works of Ossian ; uud 1 have eiwaja 
considered this as a meritorious action of na 
life. 

Your situation, as you say, was indeed very 
singular ; and, iu being brought out all at 
once from the shades of deepest privacy, to so 
great a share of public notice and observation, 
you had to stand a severe trial. 1 am happy 
that you have stood it so well ; and as far as I 
have known or heard, though in the midst of 
many temptations, without reproach to your 
chaiacter and benaviour. 

Vou are now, I presume, to retire to a more 
private walk of life; and I trust, will conduct 
yourself there with industry, prudence, and 
ur. Yon have laid the founuation i..r 
just public esteem. In the midst of those em- 
ployments, which your situation will render 
proper, you ^ill not, 1 hope, neglect to pro- 
mote that esteem, by cultivating your genius, 
and attending to such productions of it as may 
raise your character still higher. At the same 
time, be not in loo great a haste to come for 
ward. Take time and leisure to improve and 
mature your talents ; for on any second pro- 
duction you give the world, your fate us a 
poet will very much deiieud. Thute is, no 



BUK.NS._LETTEKS. 



donbt, a gloss of noveity whinh time wears off. 
A> yf'CS very properly hi<U jfourseif, you are 
noi to be surprised if, in )Our rural retreat, you 
do nut find yourself surrounded with that glare 
of notice and applause which here shone upon 
you. No man caa be a good poet without 
being somew'jat of a philosopher. He must 
lay his account, that any one who exposes 
himself to public observation, will occasionally 
meet with the attacks of illiberal censure, 
■which it is always best to overlook and despise. 
He will be inclined sometimes to court retreat, 
and to disappear from public view. He will 
not aft'ect to shine always, that he may at pro- 
per seasons come forth with more advantage 
and energy. He will not think himself ne- 
glected if he be not always praised. I have 
taken the liberty, yiou see, of an old man, to 
give advice and make reflections which your 
own good sense will, I dare say, reader unne- 
cessary. 

As yon mention yonr bein^ just about to 
kave town, you are going, I should suppose, 
to Dumfriesshire to look at some of Mr Miller's 
farms. I heartily wish the offers to be made 
you ihere may answer; as I am persuaded 
you will not easily find a more generous and 
better hearted proprietor to live under than Mr 
Miller. When you return, if you come this 
way, I will be happy to st^e you, and to know 
concerning your future plans of life. You 
will find me, by the 2 2d of this month, not in 
my house in Argyle Square, but at a country- 
bouse at Reslalrig, about a mile east from 
Edinburgh, near the Musselburgh road. Wish- 
ing you all success and prosperity, 1 am, with 
real regard and esteem. 
Dear Sir., 

Yours sincerely, 

HUGH BLAIR. 



PRO;>I DE MOORE. 



aifin-d Street, May 23, 1787' 
DEAR SIR, 

1 had the pleasure of your letter by Mr Creech, 
and soon after he sent ma the new edition of 
your poems. You seem to think it incumbent 
on you to send to each subscriber a number of 
copies proportionate cO his sub^^cription money ; 
but you may depecd upon it, few subscribers 
expect more than one copy, whatever they sub- 
scribed. I must inform yon, however, that I 
took twelve copies for those subscribers for 
whose money you were so accurate as to send 
me a receipt ; end Lord Eglinton told me he 
had sent for six copies for himself, as he wished 
to give five of them in presents. 

Some of the poems you have added in this 
last edition are beautiful, partienlarly the Win- 
ter Nighi, the Addreta to Edinburgh, Green 
grow the Rashes, and tho two soiigs immedi- 
ately following; the latter of wbioh was ex- 
qoisite. By the way, I itnn^ne you have a 
paciUiojT taleut for such comiositionaL which 



you ought to Indulge.* No kind of poetry de- 
mands more delicacy or higher polistiuig. 
Horace is more admired on account of his Odea 
than all his other writings. But nothing nov7 
added is equal to your Vision and Cotter' a 
Saturday Night. In these are united fine ima- 
gery, natural and pathetic description, with 
sublinity of language and thought. It is evi- 
dent that you already possess a great variety of 
expression and command of the English Ian- 
guage ; you ought, therefore, to deal more 
sparingly for the future, in the provincial dia- 
lect : — why should you, by using thai, limit the 
nuMiber of your admirers to those who under- 
stand the Scottish, when you can extend it to 
all persons of taste who understand the English 
language ? In my opinion, you should plan 
some larger work than any you have as yet at- 
tempted. I mean, reflect upon some proper ' 
subject, and arrange the plan in your mind- 
without beginning lo execute any part of it till 
you have studied most of the best English 
poets, and read a little more of history. The 
Greek and Roman stories you can read in some 
abridgment, and soon become master of the 
most brilliant facts, which must highly delight 
a poetical mind. You should also, and very 
soon may, become master of the heathen mytho- 
logy, to which there are everlasting allusion* 
in all the poets, and which in itself is char- 
mingly fancifuL What will require to be 
studied with more attention, is modern history ; 
that is, the history of France and Great 
Britain, from the beginning of Henry the 
Seventh's reigr^. 1 know very well you have 
a mind capable of attaining knowledge by a 
shorter process theja va commonly used, and I 
am certain yon are eapabie of making a better 
use of it, when attained, than is generally done. 

I beg you will not give yourself the trouble 
of writing to me when it is inconvenient, and 
make no apology, when you do write, for hav- 
ing postponed it ; be assured of this, however, 
that I shall always be happy to hear from you. 
I think mj friend Mr — — told me that you 
bad some poems in manuscript by you of a 
satirical and humorous nature (in which, by 
the way, I think you very strong,) which your 
prudent friends prevailed on you to omit ; par- 
ticularly one called Somebody's Confession ; 
if you will intrust me with the sight of any of 
these, I will pawn my word to give no copies, 
and will be obliged to you for a perusal of them. 

I understand you intend to take a farm, and 
make the useful and respectable business of 
husbandry your chief occupation ; this, i hope, 
will not prevent your making occasional ad- 
dresses to the nine ladies who have shown you 
Buch favour, one of who^n visited you in the 
auld day biggin, Virgil, before you, proved to 
the world that there is nothing in the business 
of husbandry inimical to poetry ; and I sincerely 
hope that you may afford an example of a good 
poet being a successful farmer. I fear it will 
not be in my power to visit Scotland this sea- 
son ; when I do, I'll endeavour to find you 
out, for I heartily wish to see and converse witk 
you. If ever yonr occasions call yon to this 
place, 1 make no doubt of your paying me a 



* His subsequent compositions will bear tes- 
timony to tha acouracy of Dr Moora's jndg. 
meau 



DIAJJOXD CABINET LIBRARY. 



uid yon may di^Tjnd on a very cordial 
ue from this fauiiiv. 

1 am, dear Sij, 
lour friend aud obedient servant, 
J. MOORE. 



FROM MR JOHN HUTCHINSON. 

SIR, Jamaica, St Ann'' s, Wth June, 1787. 
I received yours, dated Edinburgh, 2d Janu- 
ary 17S7, i\ herein you acquaint roe you were 
engaged with Mr Douglas of Port Antonio, for 
three years, at thirty pounds sterling a-yi 
and are tiappy some unexpected accidents 
tervened that prevented your sailing with the 
vessel, as I have great reason to think M: 
Douglas's employ would by no means hav, 
answered your expectations. I received a copy 
of your publications, for which 1 return jou 
my thanks, and it is my own opinion, as 
•well as that of such of my friends as have 
seen them, tbey are most excellent in tlieir 
kind; ahhough' some could have wished they 
had been in the English style, as they allege the 
" Scottish dialect is now becoming obsolete, and 
thereby the elegance and beauties of your 
poems are in a great measure lost to far the 
greater part of the community. Nevertheless 
there is no doubt yon had sufficient reasons fur 
jour conduct— perhaps the wibhes ol some of 
the Scottish nobility aud geniry, your patrons, 
vho will always relish their o\in old country 
style ; and your own-iuclinationsforthe same, it 
is evident from several passages in your works, 
you are as capable of writing in the English 
fee in the Scottish dialect, and I am in great 
'Hopes your genius for poetry, from the spe- 
cimen you have already given, will turn out 
both for prolit and honour to yourself and 
country. 1 can by no means advise you now 
to think of coming to the West Indies, as, 1 
assure yon, there is no encouragement for a 
man of learning and genius here ; and am very 
confident you can do far better in Great Bri- 

luy friends are well, and shall always be happy 
fo hear from you at all convenient opportuni- 
all your uudertak- 



I V 






you will send me a copy of the other editii 
vou arp now printing. 

1 am, with respect. 

Dear Sir, yours, &c. 

JOHN HUTCHINSON. 



Inverness, 5th September, 178 7. 

MY T>KAR SIR, 

1 hr."" jijit time to write the foregoing,* and 



to tell you that it was (at least mo«t part of it), 
the illusion of an liail hour 1 spent at liruar. 
1 do not mean it was exteni}x)re, for 1 have en- 
deavoured to brush it up as well as Mr 

N 's chat, and the jogging of the chaise, 

would allow. It eases my heart a good deal, 
as rhyme is the coin with which a poet pays 
his debts of honour or gratitude. W hat I owe 
to the noble family of Alhole, of the first kind, 
I shall ever proudly loast ; what 1 owe of the 
l?.st, so help me God in my hour of need, I 
shall never forget. 

Ihe little '• angel band I " — I declare I 
prayed for them very sincerely to-day at the 
f- all of Fyars. 1 sliall never forget the tine 
family-piece 1 saw at Blair ; the amiable, the 
truly noble Duchess, with her smiling little 
seraph in her lap, at the head of the table; 
the lovely " olive plants, " as the Hebrew bard 
finely says, round the happy mother ; the beau- 

tiiul'Mrs G ; the io>ely sweet Miss C. 

&c. 1 wish I had the powers of Guide to do 
them justice! My Lord Duke's kind hospital- 

itv, markedly kind, indeed- MrG.of F 's 

charms of cou\etsation— Sir W. M 's 

friendship — in short, the recollection of all 
that polite, agieeable company, raises an 
honest glow in uiy bosom. 



No. XXXIV. I 

TO MR CILEERT BURNS. 

Ediidmrgh, 17 th Sept. 1787. 
MY DEAR BROTHER, 
I arrived here safe yesterday evening, after a 
tour of twenty-two days, aud travelling near 
six hundred miles, windings included. Aiy 
farthest stretch was about ten miles beyond In- 
verness. I went through the heart of the 
Highlands, by Criell, laymouth, the famous 
seat of Lord Breadalbane, cown the Tay, 
among cascades and druidical circles of stones 
to Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of Athole j 
thence cross Tay, and up one of his tributary 
streams to Blair of Athole, another cf iho 
duke's seats, where I had the honour of spend 
iiig nearly two days with his Grace and fam- 
ily ; thence many miles through a wild coun- 
try, among clifi's gray v-riih eternal snows, ai<i 
gioomy savage glens, till I crossed Spey aud 
went down the stream through Strathspey, so 
famous in Scottish music, Badenoch, &c. till 
1 reached Grant Castle, where 1 spent half a 
day with Sir James Grant and family, 
aiid then crossed the country for l-ort George, 
but called by the wav at Cawdor, the ancient 
seat of Macbeth ; there 1 Sbw the identical bed 
in which, tradition says, king Duncan was 
iiurUered: lastly, from Fort George to luvcr- 

I returned by the coast, through Nairn, 
Forres, and so on, to Aberdeen ; thence to 
nehive, where James Burnes, from Mon- 
e, met me by appointment. 1 spent two 
s auiong our relations, and found our aui.s, 
a aud Isabel, still aliie, and hale old wo- 
1. John Caird, though born the same year 
li our father, walks as vijiorously as I can ; 
ihey have had several letters from hig eon 



BURNS.— LETTERS. 



sr 



5a New York. William Braii'l is likewise a 
stoul old fellow : but fmther particulars I de- 
lay till I see jou, which will be in two or three 
weeks. The rest of my stajres are not worth 
rehearsing; warm as I was i'roni Ossian's 
country, where I had seen his very frvave, 
what cared I for fishing towns or fertile earses ? 
1 slept at the famous Brodie of lirodie's one 
night, and dined at Gordon Castle next day 
■with the Duke, Duchess, and family. I am 
thinking to cause my old mare to meet me, by 
means of JohnRonald.alGlaHgow; but you shall 
hear farther from me before I leave Edininirgh. 
My duty, and many complimeni.-, from the 
north, to my mother, and my brolheily compli- 



1 havi 



No. X\XV. 
FROM MR R 



1 tryi. 



also Omcron Cameron, which seemed to make 
such a deep impression on your imagination, 
that I am not without liopes, it will beget some, 
thing to delight the public in due time : and, 
o doubt the circumstances of this little tale 
light be varied or extended, so as to make 
art of a pastoral comedy. Age or wounds 
light have kept Omeron at home, whilst his 
countrymen were in the iield. His station 
may be somewhat varied, without losing his 
simplicity and kindness .... A group 
of characters male and female, connected with 
the plot, might be formed from his family, or 
some neighbouring one of rank. It is not in- 
dispensable that the guest should be a man of 
high station ; nor is the political quarrel in 
rhich he is engaged, of much importauce, un- 
less to call forth the exercise of generosity and 
faithfulness, grafted on patriarchal hospitality. 

: above comedy ; though a small spice of 
the,m would season the converse of swaiiit. 
Upon this head 1 cannot say more than to re- 
juimeud the study of the character ot £uma;u3 



SIK, Ochlerlyre, 22d October, 1787. 

Twas only yesterday I got Colonel Edmon- 
stoune's answer, that neither the words of 
Doivn the bum, Davie, nor Duiiitij Davir, ( I 
forgot which you mentioned), were wriiifri by 
Colonel G. Crawford. Kext time I meet 
bim, I will inquire about his cousin's pcslical 
talents. 

Inclosed are the inscriptions yon requested, 
and a letter to Mr Young, whose company and 
musical talents will, I am persuaded, be a feast 
to you. * Nobody can give you better hints, 
as to your present plan, than he. Receive 



xiptions, so much admired by 



WRITTEN IN 17G8. 

FOR THE SALTCTUMf AT OCHTER- 
TYKE 

Salubritatis voluptatisque causa. 

Hoc Salictum, 

Paludem oliin infidam, 

Mihi meisque desicco et exorno. 

Hic,.procul negotiis strepiluque, 

Innocuis deliciis 

Silvulas inter nasc<'ntes reptandi, 

Apiuraque labores suspiciendi, 

Fruor, 

ITic, si faxit Deus opt. rnax. 

Prope hunc fontem pelluci.tum. 

Cam quodam juventutis amico puperstite, 

Saepe conquiescam, sem-x^ 

Contentus modicis, meoque liLMiis ! 

Sin aliter- 

.ffivique paululum sopprsit, 

Vos silvulffi, et amici, 

Csteraque amcena, 

Valete, diuque la;tamirii ! 

f Salictnm— Grove of WiU-T-Vs, WlHow- 



ENGLtSHED. 

To improve both air ar.d soil. 

Grain and decorate this p!autatio;i of willows. 

Which was lately an unprolilable morass. 

Here far from noise and slrife, 

I love to wander. 

Now fondly marking the progress of my trees. 

Now sludyiiiiT the bee, its arts and manners. 

Here, if it please Almighty God, 

May I oflLii lest in the evening of life. 

Near tliat transpareiit fountain. 

With some surviving friend cf my youth ; 

Contented with a competency. 

And happy with my lot. 
If vain these humble wislies. 
And life draws near a close, 

Ys trees and friends. 

And whatever else is dear. 

Farewell, and long may je ilourisfa. 

ABOVE THE DOOR OF THE HOUSE. 

■WKITTE.N IN 1775. 



Prope Taichi i 
Bene vivere fausteque raori ! 

ENGLISHED. 



These inscriptions, and the translations, are 
n t>ie handwriting of .^J^ R 

This gentleman, if still alive, will, it is 
hoped, excuse the liberty taken by the unknown 
' '^' ■' iponder 



editor, in enrichin: 

Burns with bis excellent letti 

pt;.:US so clp..^:;icli and 1(1 I 



fereslii 



ith i 



DlAilOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



in the Odyssey, which, in Air Pope g trausla- 
tion, is an exquisite and invaluable drawing 
from nature, that would -^uit some of oar coua- 
trj elders of the pre-.eiil day. 

There must be love in the plot, and a happy 
discoTery ; and peace and pardon may be tae 
reward of hospitality, and honest atiaohmeot 
to misguided principles. Wben you have once 
thought of a ulot, and broufjht the story into 
form, Dt Blacklock, or Air H. Alacltcnzie, 
may be useful in dividing it into acts und 
scenes ; for in these matters one must pay some 
attention to ceriain rules of the drama. These 
jon could afterwards fill up at your lei^u^e. 
But, whilst I presume to give a few well- 
meant hints, let me advise you to study the 
spirit of my namesake's dialogue,* which is 
natural without being low, and, under the 
trammels of verse, is such as country people in 
their situations, speak every day. You have 
only to bring down your own strain a very 
little. A great plan, such as this, would con 
centre all your id.as, which faciiitaies the 
execution, and makes it a part of one's 
pleasure. 

I approTe jf your pkii ot retiring from din 
and dissioation to a farm of very moderate size, 
iuificieut to had exercise fur mind and body, 
buL not so grsKt as to absorb better things. And 
if some intellectual pursuit be well chosen and 
steadily pursued, it will be more lucrative 
than most farms, in this age of rapid improve- 

Upon this subject, as your well-wisher and 
admirer, permit me to 20 a step further. Let 
tho-e bright talents when the Almighty has 
bestowed ou you, be h-uceforth empioyed to 
the jiotile purpose of supporting the cause of 
truth and %irtue. An im;iginatioa so varied 
and forcible as yours, may do ttiis in many dif- 
ferent modes; nor is it necessary to be always 
serious, which you have been tj good purpose | 
^ood mijiaJs may be recommended in a comedy, 
or eTPn in a song. Great allowances are due 
to the heat and inexperience of youth; — and 
few poets can boast, like Thomson, of never 
haviiig written a line, wiiuh, dying, they 
■would wish to blot. In partiouiar. I wiih you 
to keep clear of the tiiorny v\aiks of satire. 
which makes a man ati hundred etieir.ie~ fur oce 
friena, and is doubly dangerous uheu one is 
supp.'sed to extend the slip^ and .vea'iu^s^e^ of 
indiv. duals to their sect or pa ty, Al>oii' iioK-s 
of faith, serious and excellent Mien have a.wa,s 
differed ; and there are certain curious ques- 
tions, which may a.iord scupe to men of meta. 
physical beads, but seldom mend the heart or 
temper. Whilst these points are beyond human 
ken, it is sufficient that ail our sects concur in 
their views of morals. You wiii forgive me lor 
these hints. 

Well ! what think you of good Lady C. f It 
is a pity she is so deaf, and speaks so indis- 
tinctly. Her house is a specimen of the man- 
sions of our gentry of the last age, when hospi. 
tality and elevation of miucl were conspicuous 
amidst plaiu fare and plain furniture. I shall 
be glad to hear frooi you at times, if it were no 
more than to show that you take the effusions 
0t aa obscure laaa like me ia (,ood pare I 



bpg my oest respects to Dr and Mrs Black* 
lock, f 

And am. Sir, 

Your most obedient humble servast* ' 
J. RAMSAY. 



t T.\LE OF OMERON CAAIERON. 

In one of the wars betwixt the Crown of 
1 Scotland and the Lords of the Isles, Alexander 
I Stewart, Earl of War (a distinguished charac- 
ter in the Jteenth century), and Donald Stew- 
; art. Earl of Caithness, had the command of 
I the roval army. They marched into Lochaber, 
with a view of attacking a body of -M' Donalds, 
cotnmauded by Donald ilalloch, and potted upon 
I a 1 arm of the sea which intersects that country. 
Having timely intelligence of their approach, 
the insurgents got off precipitately to the oppo- 
site shore in tlieir curaghs, or boats covered 
with skins. The king's troops encamped la 
full security; but the M 'Donalds, returning 
about midnight, surprised them, ki.led the Earl 
i, and destroyed or dispersed the 

ith- 



whole at my. 

The Earl of Mar escaped in the dark, 
out any attendants, and made for the moi 
hiUv pan of the country, lathe course of h 
flisht he came to the house of a poor - 

landlord v 
kindness t 



but, 






Omeron Cam 
»d his guest with the utmost 
as there was no meat iu me 
IS wife he would directly kill 
feed the stranger. •• Kill our 
little 



* Allan Ramsaj, in the Gentle Sbepberdt 



MoU Odkar,:;. 

only cow ! " said she, •• our ov 
children's principal support I" Aiore atten- 
tive, however, 10 the present call for Hospitality, 
than to the reinoustraiices of his wife, or the 
future exigencies of his tamily, he kiiled the 
cow. The best and lenderes. parts were im- 
mediately roasted before the tire, and plenty of 
inniitch, or High;anil soup, prepanred to con- 
clude their meal. — The whole family and their 
guest ate heartily, and the evening was spent 
as usual, in telling tales and singing songs be- 
side a cheerful fire. Bed time came; Ome.o* 
brijshed the hearth, sp .aU the cow hide upon 
it, und desired the stra.ger to lie down. The 
Earl wrapped h., plau atiout him, and slept 
sound on the hide, whilst the family betook 
tliemselves to rest iit a. coiner ot the same room. 

Next morning tbey had a plentiful breakfast, 
and at his departur.- his guest asked Cameron, 
if he knew whom he bad entertained f '• Yoa 
may probably," answered he, "be one of the 
king's officers; but whoever you are, yoa 
came here in distress, and here it was ray duty 
to protect yon. To what my cottage afforded, 
you are most welcome." — •* Your guest, 
then," replied the other, ••is the Earl of 
Mar: and if hereafter you fall into any mistor- 
tune, fail not to r^me to the castle of Kiidrum- 
mie." — "My blessing be with you! noble 
stranger," said Omeron; "if 1 am ever ia 
distress yon shall soon see me. " 

The royal army was soon after re-assembled t 
and the insurgents, tinding themselves unatjle 
to make head asaiust it, dispersed. TheM'- 
Donaiot, howevei, got notice that Omeron had 

:;: MjoI Oduar, i. e. the brown bumble cow* , 



BURKS._LErri-R3. 



Nj. XXXVI. 
FROM MR W , 

Aikole House, 13th September, 1787. 

Yotir letter of the 5th reached me only on the 
11th; what awkward route it had taken I 
know not : but it deprived me of the pleasure 
of writing to yon in the manner you proposed, 
as you must hare left Dundee before a letter 
could possibly have got there. 1 hope your 
disappointment on being forced to leave us was 
as great as appeared from your expressions. 
This is the best consolation for the greatness of 
ours. I still think with vexation on that ill- 
tiined indisposition which lost nie a day's en- 
joyment of a man (I speak without flattery), 
puEsebsed of those very dispositions and talents 

1 most admire : 

. . . You know how anxious the Duke 
was to have another day of you, ana to let Wr 
Dundas have the pleasure of your conversation, 
as the best dainty with which he could enter- 
tain an honoured guest. You know likewise 
the eagerness the ladies showed to detain you ; 
but perhaps you do not know the scheme 
which they devised, with their usual fertility 
in resources. One of the servants was sent to 
your driver to bribe him to loosen or pull off a 
ehoe from one of his horses, Lut the ambush 
failed- Prohmiruml The driver was u;co)- 
rui title. Your verses have given us much de- 
light, and I think will produce their proper 
ettect.* They produced a powerful one imme- 
diately ; for the morning alter 1 read them, we 
all set out in procession to the Bruar, where 
none of the ladies had been these seven or eight 
years, and again enjoyed them there. 'Ihe 
passages we must admired are the description 
of the di/i7ig irouts. Of the high fall, "twist- 
lug strength" is a happy picture of the upper 
pan. The characters ot the birds, **mildund 
mellow," is the thrush itself. 'Ihe benevolent 
anxiety for their happiness and safety I highly 
approve. The two stanzas beginning '* Uere 



been the Earl's host, and forced him to fly the 
country. He came with his wife and children 
to the gate of Kildrummie Castle, and required 
admittance with a confidence which hardly 
corresponded with his habit and appearance. 
'1 he porter told him, rudely, his Lordship was 
at dinner, and must not be disturbed, lie be- 
came noisy and importunate: at last his name 
was announced. Upon hearing that it was 
Onieron Cameron, the Eari started from his 
seat, and is said to have exclaimed in a sort of 
povtical ctanza, " I was a night in his house, 
end fared most plentifully ; but naked of 
clothes was my bed. Omeron from Breugach 
is an excellent fellow I" He was introduced 
into the great hall, and received with the wel- 
come he deserved. Upon hearing how he had 
been treated, the earl gave him a four merk 
land near the ca.stle ; and it is said there are 
still in the country e number of Camerons de- 
sceaued of this Highlana tuuia;us. 

' The humble Pelitiou o» Bruar- Water to 
Iht Uukeof Aihule. 



o Tay- 



Here I cannot deny myEelf the pleasure o( 
mentioning an incident which happened es 
terday at the Bruor. As we passed the Joor 
of a most miserable hovel, an old woman curt- 
sied i.0 us with looks of such poverty, ano such 
contentment, that each of us invuiuntariK gave 
her some money. She was astonished, and iu 
the confusion of her gratitude, invited lis in. 
Miss C. and I, that we might not hurt htr de- 
licacy, entered — but, good God, what wretch- 
edness ! It was a cow-hcuse — her own cottage 
had been burnt last winter. Ihe poor ?:d 
creature stood perfectly silent — looked at Miss 
C. then to the money, and burst into tears — 
Miss C joined her, and, with a vehemence of 
sensibility, took out her purse, and emi.uied it 
into the old woman's lap. What a charming 
scene! — A sweet accomplished girl of seven- 
teen in so angelic a situation ! Take jour pen- 
cil and paint her in _\cur most glowing •.ints. 
— Hold her up amicst the darkness of this 
scene of human woe, to the icy dan.es that 
flaunt through the gaieties of life, wuhout ever 
feeling one generous, one great emolici 

Two days after you left us, 1 v\enl 
mouth. It is a charming place, but s 
think art has been too busy. Let me be \our 
Cicerone for two days at Dunkeld, and'jou 
will acknowledge that in the beauties of nji'ked 
nature we are not surpassed. The loch, the 
Gothic arcade, and the fall of the hermitage, 
gave me most delight. But I think the iu.st 
has not been taken proper advantage of. 'ihe 
hermitage is too much in the common-place 
style. Every body expects the couch, the 
book-press, and the hairy gown. "Ihe Duke's 
idea 1 think better. A rich and elegant apart- 
ment is an excellent contrast to a scene oi Al- 
pine horrors. 

1 must now beg your permission (unless you 
have some other design) to have your verses 
printed. They appear to me extremely correct, 
and some particular stanzas would give univer- 
sal pleasure. Let me know, however, if 5(ou 
incline to give them any farther touches. 

Were they in some of the public papers, we 
could more easily disseminate them among 
our friends, which many of us axe anxious to 
do. 

When you pay your promised visit to the 
Braes of Ochtertyre, Mr and Mrs Graham of 
Baigowau beg to have the pleasure of conduct- 
ing you to the bower of Bessy Bell and Aiary 
Oiay, which is now in their possession. The 
Duchess would give any consideration for ano- 
ther tight of your letter .'o Dr Moore ; we must 
fall upon some method of procuring it for her. 
I shall inclose this to our mutual friend Lr 

B , who may forward it. 1 shall be 

extremely happy to hear Ironi you at yoor first 
leisure. Inclose your letter in a cover aid* 
dressed to the Duke of Athole, Dunkeld. 
God bless you. 



DIAMOND CAHTNLT l.fUUA 



FROM MR A- 



SIR> 



6lh October, ITS 7. 



l<V;iri ibat my cniickel verse should spairga 
Some wark of worJie luak, 

I 'se ii:i8 mair o' ibis head enlarge- 
But now uiy fareHeil tak ; 

Lan? may you live, lang may you write, 
Aud slug like English ^Veischell, 

This prayer I do my belf indite. 



Having just arrived from abroad, 1 bad vour 
poems put into my Lauds : the pleasure 1 re- 
ceived in reiidiag them, has induced me to 
solicit your liberty to publish them amongst a 
number of our couutrymeu iu America (to 
which place I shall shortly return), aud 
where they will he a treat of such excellence, 
that it would be au injury to your merit and 
their feeling to prevent their appearing in 
public. 

Receive the following hastily written line5 
from a well-wisher. 



n yours still. A— 
This 






fair fa' ; 



r leisc 



: pen, my dainty Rob, 



Wniiles, glowring'o'er your warks, I sob. 
Whiles laugh, whiles downright greeting 

Your sousie tykes may charm a chiel, 
Their words are wond'rous bouny. 

But guid Scotch drink the truth does say. 
It is as guid as tmy 

Wi' you this day. 

Poor Mailie, troth, I'll nae but think, 

Ye did the poor thing wrang. 
To leave her tether 'd on the brink 

Ot stank sue wide and lang ; 
Her dying words upbraid ye t.air. 

Cry lie on your neglect ; 
Guid faith f'la ye had got play fair. 

This deed had stretch 'd your neck. 

That mournfu' day, 



But waes r. 

Wi' sik . 
Wha great 

And tak 1 
It seU na o 

For few' lik. 



, how dare fin' faut, 

i" sma's begun t 
m by the gardie 
r lawland chiel, 
J verse or rhyi 



daut. 



fley the deil. 
And skclp auid wither 'd Time 
On ony day. 

It's fair to praise ilk canty callan. 

Be he of purest fame. 
If he but tries to raise, as Allan, 

Auld Scotia's bonny name ; 
To you, therefore, iu humble rhyme, 

Better I canna gie. 
And though it's but a swatch of thine, 

Accept these lines frae me. 

Upon this day. 

Frae Jock o' Groats to bonny Tweed, 

Frae that e 'en to the line. 
In ilka place where Scotchmen bleed, 

There shall your hardship shine ; 
Uk honest chiel wha reads your buiek, 

Will there aye meet a brither. 
He lang may seek aud lang will Iook, 

Ere be fin sic anither 

Oa onv day. 



No. XXXVIII, 
FROM MR J. RAMSAY. 

TO THE 

RE\\ W. YOU^"G, AT ERSKINE. 
Ochlerlyre, 22d October, 1787. 

DKAR SIK, 

il!ow nje to introduce Mr Burns, whoso 
poems, I dare say, have given yon much 
pleasure. Upon a personal acquaiutance, 1 
doubt not, you will relish the man as much as 
:s, in which there is a rich vein of 
intellectual ore. Ue has heard some of our 
Highland hiinigs or songs played, which 
delighted him so much that he has made 
vords to one or two of them, which will ren- 
ter these more popular. Ai he has thought of 
leing in your quarter, I am persuaded you 
vill not think it labour lost to indulge the poet 
of nature with a sample of those sweet artless 
melodies, which only waut to be mai-ricd (in 
Milton's phrase) to congenial words. I wish 
e could conjure up the gho<r of Joseph M'D. 
I infuse into our bard a portion of his enthu- 
asm for those neglected airs, which do not 
lit the fastidioiis^ musicians of the present 
hour. But if it be true that Corelli (whom I 
looked on as the Homer of music) is out of 
;, it is no proof of tlieir taste ; — Uiis, how- 
, is going out of my pro% iiice. You can 
show Mr Burns the manner of sinking lliese 
same luinigs ; and, if he can humour it ia 
words, I do not despair of seeing one of them 
sung upon the stage, iu tlie original st^ le 
round a napkin. 

1 am very sorry we are likely to meet so sel- 
dom in this neighbourhood. It is one of the 
greatest drawbacks that attends obscurity, that 
one has so few opportun ties of cultivating 
acquaintances at a distance. I hope, how- 
ever, some time or other, to have the pleasiira 
of beating up your quarters at Erskine, and 
of hauling you away to Paisley, &c. mean- 
while I beg" to be remembered to Messrs Boog 
aud Mvlne. 

If MV B. goes by , give him a billet 

)n our friend Mr Stuart, who, 1 presume, 
ioes not dread thefrowu of his divcesan. 
1 am, Dear Sir, 

Your most obedient bumble servant, 
J. KAAlSAif. 



BURNS.— LETTER3. 



1«1 



No. XXXIX. 



MR RAMSAY TO DR BLACKLOCK. 
Ochberturc, 27th October, 1787. 

I>£AR SIR, 
1 received yours by Mr Burns, and give you 
many thanks for giving nie an opportunity of 
conversing with a man of his calibre. He 
will, 1 doubt not, let you know what passed 
oetween us on the subject of tny hints, to wiiich 
I have made additions, in a letter sent him 
t 'other day to your care. 

Yoi may tell Mr Burns, when you see him. 
that Colonel Edmon^toune told nie t'other dsj, 
that his cousin. Colonel George Crawford, was 
no poet, but a great singer of songs ; but that 
his eldest brother Robert (by a former mar- 
riage) had a great turn that v. ay, having writ- 
ten the words of The£nsh abooii Traquair, and 
Twtedside. That the Mary to wliuni it was 
addressed was Mary Stewart of llie Castleniilk 
family, afterwards wife of Mr John Relches. 
The Colonel never saw Robert Crawford, 
though he was at his burial tilty-live years aso. 
He was a pretty young man, and had lived long- 
in France. Lady Ankerville is his niece, anu 
may know more of his poetical vein. An epi- 
taph-monger like me might moralize upon the 
»aiiity of life, and the vanity of those sweet 

elfusions But I have hardly room to ofl'er my 

best compliments to Mrs Blaeklock ; and 1 am, 
Dear Doctor, 

Your most obedient humble servant. 

RiUiSAY. 



FROM MR JOHN MURDOCH. 



MY DEAR SIR. 
As my friend, Mr Brown, is going from this place 
to your neighbourhood, I embrace the opjjor- 
tunity of telling you that I am yet alive, toler- 
ably well, and always n eipectation of being 
better. By the mucli vaiueu leliers before me, 
I see that it was my duty to have given _\ou this 
intelligence about three years and nine iinailhs 
ago ; and have nothing to allege as an excuse, 
Dut that we poor, busy, bustling bodies in Lon- 
don, are so much taken up with the various 
pursuits in which we are here engaged, that we 
seldom think of any person, creafure, place, or 
thing, that is absent. But this is not altogether 
the case with me ; for I often think of you, 
and Homie, and Riisstl, aud an unfalhomed 
tlepth, and lotcan biinisl/iTie, all in the same 
minute, although you and they are (as I sup- 
pose) at a considerable distance. 1 flatter my- 
self, however, with the pleasing thought, that 
yuu and 1 shall meet some time or other either 
in Scotland or England. If ever yon come 
hither, you will have the satisfaction of seeing 
your poems relished by the Caledonians in 
London, lull as much as ihej can be by those 



of Edinburgh. We frequently repeat seme of 
your verses in our Caledonian society ; and 
you may believe, that I am not a little vaia 
that I have had some share in cultivating such 
a genius. I was not absolutely certain that 
vou were the author, till a few days ago, whea 
I made a visit to Mrs Hill, Ur M'Comb's eldest 
daughter, who lives in town, and who told me 
that slie was informed of it by a letter from her 
si^ter in Edinburgh, with whomyou had been 
in company when in that capital.' 

Pray let me know if you have any intention 
of visiting this huge, overgrown metropolis ? 
It would afford matter for a large poem. Here 
you would have an opportunity of indulging 
your vein in the study of mankind, perhaps to 
a greater degree than in any city upon the face 
of the globe"; for the inhabitants of London, as 
you know, are a collection of all nations, kin- 
dreds, and tongues, who make it, as it were. 



the ci 



eofti 



Present my respectful compliments to Mra 
Burns, to my dear friend Gilbert, and all the 
rest of her amiable children. May the Father 
of the universe bless you all with those princi- 
ples and dispositions that the best of parents 
took such uncommon pains to instil into your 
minds from your earliest infancy ! May yon 
live as he did ! if you do, you can never be 
unhappy. 1 feel myself grown serious all at 
once, and atfected in a manner I cannot de- 
scribe. I shall only add, tliut it is one of the 
greatest pleasures 1 promise myself before I die, 
that of seeing the family of a man whose me- 
mory [ revere more than that of any person that 
ever 1 was acquainted with. 

I am, my dear Friend, 
Yours sincerel 

JOHN MURDOCH. 



Gordon Canlle, 3 1st October, 1787 

SIR, 
[f you were not sensible of your fault as well 
as of your loss in leaving this place so suddenly, 
I should condemn you to starve upon cauld kail 
for ae toicmotil at least ; and as for J>/c« 
Latino,* your travelling companion, without 
banning him wi' a' the curses contained iu 
your letter, (which he'll jio value a bawbee,) I 
shpiddgive him uought but Stra'bogie castoclcM 
to chew for sax oaks, or aye until he was as 
sensible of his error as you seem to be of yours. 

Your song I showed without producing the 
author ; and it was judged by the Duchess to be 
the production of Dr Beattie. I sent a copy of 
it, by her Grace's desire, to a Mrs M'Pherson 
in Badenoch, who sings Alorag and all other 
Gaelic songs in great perfection. I have re- 
corded it likewise, by Lady Charlotte's desire, 
in a book belonging to her ladyship, where it is 
in company with a great many other poems 
and verses, some of the writers of which axe 
no less eminent for their political than for their 



ll« 



niAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



pcK-iical abilities. When the Duchess was in- 
formed that you were ihe auihor, she wished 
you had written the Terses in Scotch. 

Auy letter directed to me here will come to 
hand safely, and, if sent under the Duke's 
cover, it will likewise come free ; that is, as 
long as the Duke is in this country. 
I am, Sir, yours sincerely. 



No. XLIL 
FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

siK, Linshart, November litJt, ^'87. 

Your kind return without date, but of post- 
mark October 25th, came to n:v hand only 
this day ; and, to testify my punciu-il.ty to my 
poetic engagement, I sit down inunediately to 
answer it in kind. Your acknowledgment of 
my poor but just encomiums on your surpris- 
tag genius, and your opinion of my rhyming 
excursions, are both, I think by far too high. 
The ditierence between our two tracts of edu- 
cation and the ways of life is entirely ir your 
favour, and gives you the preference every man- 
ner of way. I know a classical education will 
not create a versifying taste, but it mightily im- 
proves and assists it; and tlioughi wiiere both 
these meet, there may sometimes be ground 
for approbation, yet where taste appears single, 
as it were, and neither cramped uor supported 
by acquisition, I will always sustain the jus- 
tice of its prior claim to applause, A small 
portion of taste, this way, I have had almost 
from childhood, especially in the old Scottish 
dialect : and it is ns old a thing as I remember, 
my fondness for Christ's kirk o' the Grene, 
which I had by heart ere I was twelve years of 
age, and which, some jears apo, 1 attempted to 
turn into Latin verse. While 1 nasjoung, 1 
dabbled a good deal in these thiugs ; but, on 
getting the black gown, 1 gave it pretty much 
over, till my daughters grew up, who, being 
all good singers, pUigued'me for words to some 
of their favourite tuues, and so extorted tliese 
efinsions, which have made a public appear- 
ance beyond my expectation, and contrary to 
my intentions, at the same time that I hope 
there is nothing to be found in them uncharac- 
terisiic, or unbecoming the doth, which I 
would always wish to see respected. 

As to the assistance you propose from me in 
the undertaking you are engaged in,*' I am 
eorry I cannot give it so far as I could wish, 
and you, perhaps, expect. I>i.» daughters, 
who were my only intelligen 
fami:iale, and the old womai 
lost that taste. There 



pen 



ight f 



:ers, are all for 
I their mother h 



Wtiile. One to the old Scotch tune of Dian- 
barton's Drum&. 

The other perhaps jou have met with, as 
your noble friend the Duchess has, I am told, 
heard of it. It was squeezed out of me by a 
brother parson in lier neighbourhood, to ac- 
eoniinodate a new Highland reel for the Mar- 
quis's birth day, to tke stanza of 



'< Tune your fiddles, tun« tliem sweetly, "&<). 

If this last answer joar purpose, yon maj 
have it from a brother ef mine, Mr Jamea 
Skinner, writer in Edinburgh, who, I believe, 
can give the music too. 

There is another humorous thing, I have 
heard said to be done by the Catholic priest 
Oe.ldes, and which hit my taste much t 

•' Ttiere was a wee wifeikie was coming fras 

the fair. 
Had got a little drapikie, which bred ner 

meikle care; 
It took upo' the witie'a heart, and she began 

And, quo' the wee wifeikie, I wish I binna 
fou, 

I have heard of another new composition, by 
a young ploughman of my acquaintance, that 
I am vastly pleased with, to the tune of The 
humouis of Gltn, which I fear won't do, as the 
music, I am told, is of Irish original. I have 
mentioned these, such as they are, to show my 
readiness to oblige yon, and to contribute my 
mite, if I could, to'the patriotic workyouhave 
in hand, and which I wish all success to. 
You have only to notify your mind, and what 
you want of the above shall be sent you. 

Meantime, while you are thus publicly, I 
may say, employed, do not sheath your own 
proper and piercing weapon. Prom what I 
have seen of yours alreadj, I am inclined to 
hope for much good. One lesson of virtue and 
morality, delivered in your amusing style, and 
from such as you, will operate more than doz- 
ens would do from such as me, who shall be 
told it is our employment, and be never moro 
minded : whereas, from a pen like yours, ns 
being one of the many, what comes will be ad- 
mired. Admiration will produce regard, and 
regard will leave an impression, especialljr 
when example §oes aioug. 

Now binna saying I'm ill bred. 
Else, by my troth, I'll not be glad; 
tor caugers, ye have heard it said. 

And sic like fry. 
Maun aye be harland in their trade. 

And sae maun L 



Wishing y( 
inmyot! 
heavenly dire 






J poet pen, all s 
ster, all happin 



No. xmi. 

FROM MRS I 

K fc Castle, Zath November. 1T87. 

SIR, 
[ hope you will do me the justice to believe, 
hat it was no defect in gratitude for jout 



{ Mrs Rost of K'liravuck, Nairiuhire. 



BURNS.— LETTERS, 103 

punifuai performance of your pa-tin:^ promise, I the bottom a name tbat I shall ever value will 
that has made me so long in acknowledging- it, grateful respect, "I gapit wide bit naething 
but merely the difficulty I bad in getting the ■ spak. " 1 was nearly as much struck as tL, 
Highland songs you wished to have, accurately j friends of Job, o! affliction-bearing memory 
<iOted : they are at last inclosed : but how j when they sat down with him seven days an*; 
ihall ( convey along with them those graces seven nights, and spake not a word 
they acquired from the melodious voice of one 

of the fair spirits of the hill of Kildrummie ! I am naturally of a snperstlt'ous cast, and as 

l^h£se I must leave to your imagination to soon as my wonder-scared imagination regained 
■upply. It has powers sufficient to transport I its consciousness and resumed its functions, I 
you to her side, to recall her accents, and to | cast about what this mania of yours might por 
make them still vibrate in the ears of memory, tend. My foreboding ideas had the wide stretcl 
To her I am indebted for getting the inclosed \ of possibility ; and several events, great i 
notes. They are clothed with *^ thouslUs that 1 their magnitude, and important in their coa« 
breathe, and words that burn. " Theae, how- i. seq-^snces, occurred to my fancy. The down 



J being in an unhioion ton;, 
must again have recourse to that same fertile 
imagination of yours to interpret them, and 
Euppose a lover's description of the beauties of 
an adored mistress Why did ( say unknown 'f 
The language of love is an universal one, that 
seems to have escaped the confusion of Babel, 
and to be understood by all nations. 

I rejoice to tind that you were pleased with 
so many things, persons, and places in your 
northern tour, because it leads nie to hope 
you may be induced to revisit them a<rain. 
That the old castle of K k, and its in- 
habitants, were amongst these, adds to my 
satisfaclicn. I am even vain enough lo admit 
your very flattering- application of tlie I'.ne of 
Addison's; at any rate, allow nie to believe 
Ihiit '• friendship will maintain the ground she 
has occupied" in both our heart>, in spite of 
absence, and that, when we do meet, it w 11 be 
as acquaintance of a score of years standing ; 
and on tbi* footing, consider me as imerested 
in the future course of your fame, so splendUly 
commenced. Any communications of tb«> pro- 
gress of your muse will be received witb great 
gratitude, and the fire of your g< 



lookm 



fal of the conclave, or the crushing of the c 

rumps ; a ducal coronet to Lord George G— — 

and the proteslant interest ; or St Peter's key 

You want to know how T 
just in stalu quo, or, not to ins 
with my Latin, ** in auld i 
The lioble Earl of Glencairr 
hand to-day, and interested h 
cerns, with a goodness like that benevolent b& 
ing, whose image he so richly bears. He is a 
stronger proof of the immortality of the soul, 
any that philosophy ever produced. A 



ime on. I am 

t a gentleman 

1 took me by th" 



mind like his 



r die. Let the w 



werto warm. 


even u= 


froze 


u sisters 




rth. 










The friends of K 


— k and K - 


e 


lite in cordial 


regards 


to yc 


u. Wh 


^it you 


clme to hgnre 


either 1 


n you 


• idea, s 


uppose 


me of us readi 


ig your 


poen 


s, aid s 


onie of 


singing youi 


songs. 


and 


iiy little 


Hugh 



U. L. or the reverend Mass J. W, 
their primitive nothing. At best they 
are hut ill-dig°stfd (umps ot chaos, only one ol 
tlieui sir iiffiy tinged wUh bituminous particlfc. 
and sulphureous ehlnvia. But my noble patron, 
eternal as the heroic swell of magnanimity, ana 
the generous throb of benevolence, shall loot 
on w ith priucfly eye at ** the wir a' elements, 
the wreck of matier» and the en ah cT^orlds. " 



TO MRS DTJNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 21st January, 1738. 
After six weeks conticement, I am beginning to 
They have been six 



t your picture, and \ 
oe wrong. We remember Mr 

much guod will as we do any body, who hur horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits 
ried Mr Burns from us nie unlit to read, write, or think. 

Farewell, sir. I can only contribute the iri- I I nave a hundred times wished that one could 
dow's mile to the esteem and admiration excited ' resign life as an officer resigns a commtss-i 



by >oi 
she did, 
ours 



TO - 



ive, as I for I would not take in any poor, ignorant 
nceiely | wretch, py st/iing out. Lately I was a six- 
penny private ; and, God knows, a miserable 
soldier enough ; now I march to the campaign, 
a starving cadet t a little more conspicuoiial)' 

I am ashamed of all this ; for :ho!i^h I do 



E. R. 



want brivei 


y for the warfare &. h'i 


, 1 ooili 


wish, like sc 


me other soldiers, to nvi 


lA nrish 


fortitude or 


unning as to dissemble o 


rMn«^l 



,my( 



wardic 



; I can bear the journey-, wbiflb 
TlEAR sin, Edinburgh, 1797. I will be, I suppose, about the middle of oa«l 

L suppose the devil is so elated with his success ' week, I leave Edinburgh, and soon after I^ball 
with you, that he is det<^rmined by a coup de pay my grateful duty at Uunlop-Hoube. 
rn-it'n to complete his purposes on you al! at i 
>ii"e, in niiikin? )ou a poet. I broke open the j 
lelier >ou sent me : hummed over the rhymes; | 
and, as I saw they were extempore, said to my- ' 
self inev wore very well: but when I saw at ^. - 



DLUiO.NT) CABINET LItRARY 



i\o. XL VI. 

EXTRACT OF A Le.TTER. 

TO THE SAME. 
Edinbursh, I2lh Februari/, 17S8. 
Some things in jour late letters, hurt me : not 
that you say them, but that you mistake me. 
Religion, my honoured Madam, has not only 
been all my life my chief dependence, but my 
dearest enjoyment, I have indeed been the luck- 
ess victim of wayward follies; but ahis ! I 
have ever been " more fool than knave," A 
tnathematician without religion, is a proba- 
ble character ; au irreligious poet, is a mon- 



TO A LADY. 

MADAM, Mossgiel, Tth March, 17 S8. 

The last paragraph in yours of the 30lh Feb- 
ruary affected nie most, so I shall begin my 
answer where you ended vour letter. That 1 
am often a sinner with any littie wit I have, I 
do confess ; but I have taxed my recollection to 
no purpose, to find out when it was employed 

a great deal worse than 1 do the devil ; at 
least as Milton describes him ; and though I 
may be rascally enough to be sometimes guilty 
of it myself, I cannot endure it iu oihers. 
You, my honoured friend, who cannot appear 
in any light, but you are sure of being respec- 
table — ^yoa can afford to pass by an occasiun to 
display your wit, because you may depend for 
fame on your seuse ; or if you choose lo be silent, 
you know you can rely on the gratitude of 
many and the esteem of all ; but God help us 
who are wits or witlings by profe sion, if we 
stand not for fame there, we sink unsupported I 
I am hif hly flattered by the news you tell me 
of Coila.* I may say to the fair painter who 
does me so mocti honour, as Ur Beattie says to 
Ross the poet, of his Muse Scoria, froai wiiich, 
by the bye, 1 took the idea of Coila : ('Tis a 
poem of Beattie 's in toe Scots dialect, which 
perhaps you have u>iver seen :) 



ack of melancholy jojless tnuirs, between 
Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday, I 
turned my thoughts to psalms, and hymns, and 
spiritual songs ; and your favourite air, Captain 
O'Kean, coming at length in my head, I tried 
these words to it. You will see that the first 
part of the tune must be repeated, f- 

I am tolerably pleased with these verses, but 
as I have only a sketch of the tune, I leave it 
with you to try if they suit the measure of the 

I am so harassed with care and anxiety 
about thi fanning project of mine, that my 
muse has degenerated into the veriest prose- 
wench that ever picked cinders, or followed a 
tinker. When 1 am fairly got into the routine 
of business. I shall trouble you with a longer 
epistle ; perhaps with some queries respecting 
lijj-mmg : at present, the world sits such a load 
on my mind, that it has effaced almost every 

i\ly very best compliments, and good wishea 
to Mrs Cieghorn. 



FROM MR ROBERT CLEGHORN. ^ 

Saughton Mills, 27th Api-il, 1788. 
Mr DEAR BKOTHER FAKMER, 

I was favoured with your very kind letter of th 
31st ult. and consider myself greatly obliged ' 
you, for your attention in sending- me the sop 
to my favourite air. Captain O'Kean. Tb 
words delight me much ; they fit the tune to a 
hair, i wish \ou would send me a verse or 
two more ; and if you have no objection, I 
would have it in the Jacobite style. Suppose 
it sliould be sung after the fatal field of Culloden 
by the uufurtunate Cbarles: Tenducci perso- 
nates the lovely Mary Stuart in the song Queen 
Mary's Lainfnt.aticrn. — Why may not 1 sing iu 
the person of her great- great-great grandson ?f 



t Here the bard gives the first stanza of the 
CA«'a'«e7-'s Lamtnt. 

f Our poet took this advice. The whole of 
this beautiful song, as it was afterwards tinisb- 



" Ye shake your head, but o' my fess, 
YeVe set auid Szoua on her legs : 
Luug had she lien wi' buffs and flegs, 

Bombazed and dizzie. 
Her fiddle wanted strings and peirs, 

VVaes me, poor hizzie. " 



No. XLVIIL 
TO MR ROBERT CLEGHORN. 



THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 

; small birds rejoice in the green leaves re- 
turning, 

The muri!iuring streamlet winds clear thro 
ths vale ; 

The hawthorn trees blovy in the dews of the 

And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the green 
dale : 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem 

While tne lingering- moments are numbered by 
care ? 
lowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly 



BURNS LETTERS. 



Any skill I have in country business you 
ny.\y iruly couiiiiand. tiiuiatioii, soil, customs 
of couutries may vary from each other, but 
F^mer Altenlion is a pood farmer in every 
place. 1 beg to hear from you soon. l\Jrs 
Cles^horn joiiis uie in best compliments. 

I urn, in the raost comprehensive sense of 
the ward, your very sincere friend, 

ROBERT CLEG HORN. 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

MADAM, Mauchline, 2Slh April, 178S 
Your powers of reprehension must be ^re 
indeed, as 1 assure you they made my he;i 
nche with penitential pangs, even thouL'h i w 
really not guilty. As I commence farmer 
Whitsunday, you will easily guess I must 
pretty busy ; but that is not all. As I got ti 
ofterof the excise business witlioutsolicitatior 
and as it cosis me only six months' attendai 



forir 



title u 



which commission lies by me. and at any 
future period, on my simple petition, can he 
resumed; I thought live and thirty pounds 
a-year was no bad dernier resort tor a poor 
ix-et, if fortune in her jade tricks should kick 
linn down from the little eminence' to which 
slie has lately helped him up. 

For this reason, 1 am at present attending 
these instructions, to have them conipieled 
before VVliilsuiiduy. Still, madam, 1 pre- 
pared with the sincerest pleasure to meet jou 
(It thft Mount, and came to my brother's on 
Saturday night, to set out on Sunday ; but for 
some nights preceding I had slept in an apart- 
ment, where the force of the winds and rain 
Has only niitigated by being sifted through 
numberless apertures in the windows, walls, 
&c. In consequence, I was on Sunday, 
Monday, and part of Tuesday unable to stir 
out of bed, with all the miserable eflects of a 
violent cold. 

Yoa see, madam, the truth of the French 
maxim, Le vrai n'eitt pas toujours le vrai- 
teinlilahle ; your last was so full of expostula- 
tion, and was something so like the language 
of an otfended friend, thai I began to tremble 
for a correspondence, which I had with grate- 
ful pleasure set down as one of the greatest 
enjoyments of my future life. 

Your books have delighted me ; Virgil, 



The deed that I dared could it merit their 

malice — 
A king and a father to place on his throne ? 
ills right are these hills and his right are these 

valleys. 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can 

&nd none. *« 

But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, for- 

My brnvc gallant friends 'lis your ruin I mourn ; 
Your deeds proved so loyal, in liot bioodji 'rial, 
Aldii '. sau i make you no sweeter returu t 



Dryden, and Taseo, were all equal stranger* 
to me ; but of this more at large in my next. 



FROM TUE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

DEAR SIR, Linsfiart, 2Sth April, 1788. 
I received your last, with the curious presea 
you have favoured me with, and would have 
made proper acknowledgments before now, but 
that I have been necessarily engaged in mat- 
ters of a different complexion. And now that 
I have got a little respite, 1 make use of it to 
thank you for this valuable instance of jour 
good will, and to assure you that, with the 
sincere heart of a true Scotsman, I highly 
eateeu. both the gift and the giver ; as a small 
testimony of which I have herewith sent you 
for your amusement (and in a form which I 
hope you vvill excuse for saving postage), the 
two songs I wrote about to you already. 
C/'uirming Nancy is the real production of 
genius in a ploughman of twenty years of age 
at the time of its appeai-ing, with no more 
education than what Le picked up at an old 
farmer grandfather s fireside, though now, by 
the strength of natural parts, he is clerk to a 
thriving bleachlield in the neighbourhood. 
And I doubt not but you will find in it a sim- 
plicity and delicacy, with some turns of 
humour, that will please one of your taste ; at 
least it pleased nie when I first saw it, if that 
can be any recommendation to it. The other 
is entirely descriptive of my own sentiments, 
and you may make use of one or both as '"oa 
shall see good.* 



* CHARMING NANCY. 

A SOXG, BY A BUCHAN PLOUGHMAN. 

Tu7ie — " Humours of Glen. " 

Some sing of sweet Molly, some sing of fair 

Nelly, 

And some call sweet Susie the cause of their 

pain: 

Some love to be jolly. 

And some love to s 

But my only fancy, is my pretty Nancy, 

In venting my passion, I'll strive to be plain, 

I'll ask no more treasure. 1 11 seek no more 
pleasure 
But thee, my dear Nancy, gin thou wert vof 



Her beauty delights me,herkindnessinvitesme. 

Her pleasant behaviour is free from all stain ; 

Therefore, my sweet jewel, O do not prove 

Consent, my dear Nancy, and come be my 



She's blooming in feature, she's handsome in 
stature. 
My charming dear Nancy, O wert tbott B^ 



nUMOXn CABINET LIBRAHT 

soc^ bj«rh approhBticr to niy pwi Lattnily 



Like PhoBbns adorning the fair raddj morning. 
Her bright eyes are sparklii.g, her brows are 

Her yellow locks shining in beauty comb'ning, 
Wy charming, sweet Nancy, wiU thou be 



•nly gra 



bbe's well shaped and slender, 
and tender. 
My charming, sweel Nancj, 



likewise 

been a dabbler in Latin poetry, 1 have two 
things that I would, if be desires it, submit 
not to his judgment, bat tn his amnsetnent t 
the one, a translation of Christ's Kirk o' Om 
Gref^i, printed at Aberdeen some years ago | 
the other Hutiochotni^oytackia llon:it-i Lalinu 
versihus cutn addilcouhcit, given in lately to 
Chaimera, to print if he pleasen. Mr C will 
know Seria non temper dekciant, non joca 
temper. Semper delectant $eria mtrta jpds, 

I havejuat room to repeat eonipiunents and 
good wishes t'r')ni. 



1 '11 seek through the nation for -iome hal 
tion. 
To shelter my dear from the cold, snow, and 

With songs to my deary, I'll keep her aye 

cheery, 
Wy charming, sweet Nancy, gin thou wert 
my ain. 
I'll work at mv calling to furnish thy dwall't 
^Vithev'ry "thing needful thy lile'lo sustai 
Thou shall not sit single, but b\ a dear ing 
I'll marrow thee, Nancy, when thou art uiy 



No. LIL 
TO PROFESSOR DUGALU STEWART. 

SIR, Mauchline, S4 iVay, 1181. 

1 inclose yon one or two more of n:\ baga- 
telles. If lli« fervent w ishes ol honest gratitude 
have any ii.lluence with that great, unknown 
Being, who frames the chain of causes and 
events; prosperity and happiness will attend 



I'll make true affection the cons 
Of loving my Nancy while lift 

ITio' youth will be wasting, tru 
lasting, 
My charming sweet Nancy, 



15 ut V 



my a 



my ain. 

THE OLD MAN'S SONa 

Tiaie — " Dumbarton's Drums. '* 

By the Reverend J. Skin>eiu 

O ! why should old age so much wound us, O I 
There is nothing in't all to confound us, O j 
For how happy now am I, 
With my old -ife sittuig by. 

And our bairus and our oes all around us, O t 

NVe began in the world wi* naeth.ing, O, 
And we've josg'd on, and toil Q for the ae 
thingr O ; 
We made use of what we had. 
And our thankful hearts were glad. 
When we got the bit meat and the claith- 
ing, O. 

We have lived all our lifetime contented, O, 
Since the day we became tirsl acquainted, O i 

It's true we've been but po<>r, 

And we are so to this hour. 
Vet we never pined nor lamented, O. 



Continent, and return you safe 

^nt direction 'VN here\er I am, allow me, sir, to claim it as 

', to acquaint you with my progress 
: shall be in my trace of rhymes; as I am sure 1 could 
say it with truth, that, next to ir.y little fame, 
thou wert and the having it in my power to make lifo 

It tho we canna boast of our guineas, O, 
have plenty of Jockies, and Jeanies, O, 

And these, I am certain, are 

More desirable by far. 
Than a pock full of poor yellow sleenies, O 

e seen many wonder and ferley, O, 
Of changes that alinost are yearly, O, 
AmoBg rich folk, up and down. 
Both in ceuntry and in tow n, 
>Vli« now live but scrimply, and barely, O. 

Then why should people brag of prosperity, t 
A straitened life we see is no rarity, O j 
Indeed we've been in want. 
And our living been but scant, 
B never were reduced to need charity, O. 

In this house we first came together, O, 
Where vve've long been a Father and Mitber, O, 
And tho' not of stone and lime. 
It will last Ui a" onr time. 
And, I hope, we shall never need anither, O. 



And when we '.pave this habitation. O, 
We'll depart with a gooi tommendafion, O, 
We'll so hand in hand, I wiss. 
To a betlesrtouse than this. 
To make room for the nest generation, O. 



Then why should old age so n 



wound us 
IS, Of 



„ and be healthy. O. ' Aii<l o^^ taim 



BURNS.— LETTERS. 



107 



more eonifortabk to those whom uature has 
^ade dear to me, 1 shall ever regard your 
countenance, your patronage, your triendly 
gwod offices, as the most ralued consequeace of 
mj late success in life. 



KXTRACT Oy A LETTEa. 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

MADAM, HaucMine, ilJiXaT/, 1789. 

Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. 1 do not 
know whether the critics will agre« Jfhh me, 
but the GeorgicB are to me by far the best of 
Virgil. It is indeed a species of writing en- 
tirely new to me ; and has tilled my head with 
a thousand fancies of emulation « but, alas I 
when I read the Georgks, and then survey my 
own powers, 'tis like the idea of a Sh-tlund 
poney, drawn np by the side of a thorough-bred 
hunter, to start for the plate. I own I am dis- 
appointed in the Mneid. Faultless correcness 
*ay please, and does highly please the lettered 
eritic ; but to that awful character I have not 
the most distant pretensions. I do not know 
whether I do not hazard my pretensions to be 
a critic of any kind, when J say that I think 
Virgil, in many instances, a servile copier of 
Homer. If I had the Odyssey by me, I could 
parallel many pasaage^, wbeie V;rgil has evi- 
dently copied, but b) no tneani improved 
Homer. Nor can I think there is any thing 
of this owing to the translators ; for, from 
every thing I have seen of Dryden. ( think him. 
in genius and fluency of languige. Pope's 
master. I have not perused TasoO enough to 
form an opinion i iu some future letter, you 
shall have my ideas of him ; though I am con- 
scious my criticisms must be very inaccurate, 
■nd imperfect, as thrre I have ever feit and la- 
icented my want of learning most. 



had the honour to fpend an hour or two at a 
good woman's tireside, where the planks that 
composed the floor were decorated with a 
splendid carpet, and the gay table sparkleo 
with silver and china. Tis now about term- 
day, and there has been a revolution among 
those creatures, who, though in appearanct 
partaners, and equally noble partckers of tht 
nature with madame ; are from t 



, their 






, theii 



strength, wisdom, experience, genius, time, 
nay, a good part of their very thoughts, sold fol 

months and years, , 

not only to the necessities, the conveniences 
but the caprices of the important few.* \\i 
talked of the inbig:iilieant creatures ; nay, not- 
withstanding their oeneral stupidity and ras- 
cality, did some of thf poor devils the honour 
to eoMiraend them. But light be the turf upon 
his breast, who taught ••Reverence thyself." 
We looked down on the unpolished wretches 
their impertinent wives and clouterly brats, a 
the lordv bull does on the little dirty ant-hill 
whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the care- 
lessness of his ramble, or tosses in air iu thp 
i of his pride. 



No. LV. 
TO THE S.IME. 

AT MR DUNLOP'S, HADUl^NOrON, 

Ellisland, I3lh June, 1788. 
r realms 1 see. 



>iy hear!, UDlravell'd, fondly 

Still to mj frieud it turns with ceaseless 

Aud drags at each remove a lengthen 'd 



thee 






N... LIV. 

TO THE SAME. 

WAiiAST, H'Tfh May, 1788. 

I liave been torturing my philos >pii> to no pur- 
ps'SP, to account for that kind partiality of 

yours, which, unlike , 

iaat followed me in my return to the sh-ide of 

flfe, with assiduous beiievolence. Otieu did 1 

regret in the fleeting hours of my la^e will-o'- 

wisp appearance, that " here I had uoconliau 

ing city ;" and but for the consolation of a few 

BoVid guineas, could almost lament the time 

that a momentary acquaintance with wealth i Or what need 1 

and splendour put me so much out of conceit 

with the swum companions of my road Uirough Yonr surmis 

life, insigniticance and poverty. a hu^tanU. 

There are few circumstances relating to the I found a or 
uii^^uai distribution of the good things of this ; loved feinale, I 

what I see around ni") than (he importance the 
opulent bestow on their tndiiiu' family alVairs, * Servants i 

Cf'npar<^ with the rer) same things on the to term, 

soulracted wait of a collage. Last alternoou I &c 



Goldmnith. 

Tliis is the sei.ond day, my honoured friend, 
that 1 have been on my farm. A toiitary in- 
mate of an old, smoky sjieucei far from every 
object 1 love, or by whom 1 am loved ; nor any 
acquaintance older than %esterdav, except J-JUiy 
Gtddes, the old mare I ride on ; "while uncouth 
care*, and novel pl;;ns, hourlj insult my 
ayyiiward ignorance ai^d bashful inexperience. 
Tlf-re IS a t'agzy atmosphere native to my ^oul 
ihe bou"- of care, con'^eq'.ently the dreary ob. 



life. Exln 



fl prejudiced on the gloomy 
y a series of uiisfuriunes ad disappoiiit- 
, at that period of my eiistence when tne 
ie laying in her cargo of ideas for the 
p of life, is, I bel:eve, (he principal cause 
I unhappy frame of mind. 



1«8 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



BSercj of Cm naked elements, but as 1 enabled 
ber to purduise a shelter ; and there i* no sport- 
ing with a fellow-crealure's happiness, or 
misery. 

The most placid good-natnre and sweetness 
of disposition ; a warm heart, gratefully devoted 
with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health 
and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best 
advantage, by a more than commonly handsome 
figure; these, I think, in a woraani may make 
a good wife, though she should never have read 
a page, but the Scriptures of ike Old and Ktio 
Testament, uor have danced in a brighter as- 
sembly thau a penuy pay-wedding. 



No. LVl. 
TO MR P. HILL, 

MV DEAR HILL, 
£ shail say nothing at all to your m-d present 
— you have so long and of.en been of luipor- 
taut service to me, and I suppose you mean to 
CO an conferring obligations until I shall not 
be able to lift up my face before you. In the 
meantime, as Sir Roger de Coverly, because 
k happened to be a cold day in whjch he made 
nis will, ordered his servants great coats for 
mourning, so, because I have been this week 
jj.cigued with an indigestion, I have sent you 
by the carrier a line old ewe-milk cheese. 

Indigestion is the de\il: nay, 'tis the devil 
fciiri ail. It besets a man in every one of his 
senses. I lose my appetite at the sight of suc- 
cesslul knavery; and sicken to loathing at the 
noise and nonsense of self-important folly. 
\V hen liie hollow-hearted wretch takes me by 
the hnuii. the feeling sj>oils my dinner; the 
proud man 's wme so odends my palate that it 
cLokop me in the gullet: and the pidrilised, 
feathered, pert coxcomb, is so disgustful in iny 
nostril that my stomach turns. 

If evcT you have yi>y of these disagreeable 
liions, let me prescribe for you patience and 



able him to digest those ; bedaabin^ 

paragraphs with which he is eternally larding 
the lean characters of certain great men in a 
certain great town. I grant you the periods 
are very well turned : so, a fresh egg is a very 
good thing ; but when thrown at a man in a 
pillory it does not at all improve his figure, not 
to mention the irreparable loss of the egg. 

My facetious friend, D r, I would 

•wish also to be a partaker ; not to digest hia 
spleen, for that he laughs off, but to digest his 
la»t night's wine at the last field-day of the 
Crochaliau corps, f 

Among our common friends I must not for- 
get one of the dearest of them, Cunningham. 
The brutality, insolence, and selhshness of a 
world unworthy of having such a fellow as he 
is in it, I know sticks in his stomach, and if 
you can help him to any thing that will make 
hira a little easier on that score, it will be very 
obliging. 

A> to honest J S e, he is such 

a contented happy man, that I know not what 
can annoy him, except perhaps he may not have 
got the better of a parcel of modest "anecdotes 
■which a certain poet gave him one night at 
supper, the last time said poet was in town. 

Though I have mentioned so many men of 
law, I shall have Dothin.g to do with them pro- 
fessedly— the P'aculty are beyond ray prescrip- 
tion. As to their clients, that is another thing ; 
God knows they have much to digest ! 

The clergy I pats by ; their profundity of 
erudition, and their liberality of sentiment ; 
their total want of pride, and'iheir detestation 
of hypocrisy, are, so proverbially notorious, ss 
to plai-e llifcin far, tar above either my praise 



1 of V 



irth. 



a Lit 



f chee 



I kn, 



t yoi 



niggaru of your sood ihiuirs 


araonffvoarfr 


and some of thera are in m 


ich neeJ of a 


"l-here in ray eve is onr fr.c 


:ia Suifcilie, a 


positively of the first ab 


lilies aad^ gr 


strength of mind, as wk; 


hearts and keenest wits ih 


at I ha%e ever 



wiib : \ 



alas 






3 pinch of d 
sraaors, aggravated by the si 
ous greatness — a bit of my cheese alone will 
not cure him, but if you add a tankard of 
hrown stout, and superadd a ma<rniira of right 
Oporto, you will see his sorro-.vs vanish like the 
morning mist before the summer sun, 

C h, the earliest friend, except my 

only brother, that 1 have on earth, and one of 
me worthiestfellows that ever any man called 
by the nain^ of triend, if a luncheon of my 
ciieese woujo neip to rid him of some of his 
superabri-cant modesty, you would do well to 
p.^e it h!!n. 

I >avia» with his Cou^-ant comes, too, across 
m> recollection, and I beg you will help him 
laj-gely from the said ewc-niiik cheese, to en- 



ifc Printer of the Edinburgh EveningCourant 



whom 1 have the honour to call friend, the 
Laird of Oaigd.uroch ; but I have spoken to 
the landhird of the King's arms inn here, to 
have, at the next county-meeting, a larse ewe- 
milk cheese on the table, for the benefit^of tb. 
I>uinfrie5.sh:re whigs, to enable them to digest 
the Duke of tjueeusberry 's late political coa- 

l have just this moment an opportunity of \ 
private hand to Luinburgh, as perhaps you 
would not Uigest double postage. 



TO MRS DL'NLOP. 

MauchUr.e, 2d August, 1788. 

HON UKED MADAM, 
Your kind letter welcomed me yesternight, 
to Ayrshire. I am indeed seriously angry with 
you at the quantum of your luckpenny ; but 
vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help 
laughing very heartily at the noble lord's 
apology for the missed napkin. 

I would write you from Nithsdale, and give 
you my directiim" there, but 1 have scarce an 
opportunity of calling at a post-otBce once ia 
a fortnight. I am bis miles from Dumfries, 
am scarcely ever in it my-elf, and, as yet, haie 
iittie aiquaintaiice in the neighbourhood. 



f A club of choice spu it 



bhll 



V hoac 



. >..j f,,r.«, 
reseia I am 
, for 1 



brought tears in my eye; 



last that 
' • The heart know- 
a strauger inter- 
nieddleth not therewith." The repository of 
these "sorrows of the heart," is a kind cf 
saitclum sciiclorum; and 'tis only a clio^eii 
friend, and that too at particular, sacred limes, 
who dares euter into them. 



LE1TEUS. }09 

j 'llie woriJ were bless 'J, did bless on thtui de. 

All, that "the friendly e'er should waci » 

friend!" 
The little fate bestows they share as soon ; 
Unlike sairp, proverb M, wisdom's hard-wi ung 

Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son 
\ >Vho life and wisdom at one race begun ; 
j Who feel by reason and who give by rule ; 
I Instinct's a brute and sentiment a fool! 
j \Vho make poor itiU do wait upon / slioiJd ; 

We own they 're prudent, but who ieeis lliey 'r« 
good Y 

Yev. 



You will excuse this quotation for the sake 
of the author. Instead of eutering on ihis suD- 
ject farther, I shall transcribe you a few lines 
1 wrote in a heruiilage belonging to a gtn.ie- 
uan ia my Nitlisdaie neigbbonrbood. 'I'hty 
are almost the only favours the muse haa i 
ferred on me m that counlrv. 

Thon whom chance may hither lead, 

Be thou clad in russet weed, 

Be thou deck'd in silken stole, 

Grave these maxims on thy soul : 

Life is but a day at most, 

Si>ruug from night, in darkness lost ; 

I'ear not clouds will e>er lour. 



what )OU tell 



- Puor foiUuv 

much bv telluitr me that he is i 
shall be" in Asrsliiie ten days fro 
have just room for an old iioma 



No. LVIII. 
TO THE SAMF, 



MaHchUm; lO.'/i Angus!-, 1783. 
SIT MUCH liONOUKKD yiilEKD, 

irs of the 2 It!, .hir.e is hcioi- ,;i8. I found 



Those that would the bloom d^.'^our, 
Crush the locusts, save the flowsi. 
For the future be prepared, 
Guard wherever thou canst guard ; 
But, thy utmost duly done. 
Welcome what thou canst not shun. 
Follies past give thou to air, 
IMake their consequence thy care : 
Keep the name of man in minu, 
And dishonour not thy kind. 
Reverence with lowly heart 
Him whose wondrou= work thou art ; 
Keep his goodness still in view. 
Thy trust and thy example loo. 

Stranger, go ! heaven be thv guice '. 
Quod the Beadesman of Nitli-side. 

Since I am in the way of transcribing, the 
' following were the production of yesterday as 
1 jogged through the wild hills of New Cum- 
nock. I intended inserting them, or something 
like iheu), in an epistle I am going to write to 
the gentleman on whose friendship my excise 
hopes depend, Mr Graham of Fintry ; one of 
the worthiest and most accomplished gentlemen, 
not only of this country, but I will dare to s;iy 
it, of this age. The following are just the fus; 
crude thoughts, "uuhouseli'd, uuanoiiited, un- 
aueall'd." 

■ Pity the tuuefnl innses' belp1es'= train ; 

i Weak, liinid laucUuieu on life's stormy main : 



of n-.N heart, and 

kind inquiries; but not from your very odd 

reason that 1 do not read your letters. All 

ir epistles for several months have cost ine 

hing, except a swelling throb of gratituUe, 

a dtep-fell seutimcnt of veneration. 



Mrs Hums, Madai 



iticai ^ 



When she first found herself «f as women wis* 
to be who lose !M>ii iord.-.;'' as I loved her 
nearly to distraoiiou, we look steps for a pri- 
vate marriage. Her parents got the hint ; and 
not only forbade me her company and iheir 
house, but on my rumoured West Induiii voy- 









wek-c 



1 was at that time laid up a • 

burgh, she was turned, liters.... ~ 

doors, and 1 wrote to a frieuu. io sht 
till my return, when our marriage was 
ed. ' Her happiness or Diisery vva; 



DUMOXD CABINET LIBRARY. 



hands, and who could trifi with such a de- 
posit f 

I can easlv faney a more ap-eeable compa- 
nion for mj jourae; of life, but, apon mj 
honour, I have never seen the individual in- 
Blauce. 

Circamstanced as I am, I eoulJ never hare 
got a female partner for life, who could have 
entered iuto nj) faTourte studies, relished my 
favourite authors, ic without probably en. 
tailing on me, at the same time, expeaiive liv- 
in^,l'antastic caprice, perhaps apish aij'ectatioo, 
with all the other blessed boarding-school ac- 
quirements, which (jpardonnez moi, miuiame) 
are sometimes to be found aiuong females of 
* the upper ranks, bji almost universaiiy per- 
Tade the misses of the would-be-geaury. 

I like your way in your church-yard Incu- 
kratlons, Tbouffbls that are the spontaneous 
result of accidental situations, e-ther respect- 
ing health, place, or company, have often a 
strength, aud always an originality, that would 
in vain b looked for in fancied circumstances 
tiiid studi d paragraphs. For me, 1 have often 
thought of keeping a letter, in progrcssioTi, by 
me, to send \ou when the sheet was wrilteu 
out. Now I'talk of sheets, 1 must tell you, 
my reason for writing to ^ou on paper of this 
kind, ig my pruriency of writing to jou at I 
large, A page of post is on sucu a dissocial, ; 
narrow-minded scale, that 1 cannot abide it ; 
aud double letters, at least in my miscellaneous 
reverie manner, are a monstrous tax in a cloac 
correspouoence. 



TO THE SAME. 

EllisUnd, ICM August, 1788. 
I am in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, 
to send you an elegiac epistle ; and want only 
geniuA to make it quite bhenstouian. 

••Why droops my heart with fancied woes 



My increasing cares in this, as yet, straNge 
country — gloomy conjectures in the dark vista 
of futurity — consciocsuess of my own inability 
for the struggle of tht world — my broadened 
mark to misfortune in a wife and children :— 1 
could iud Ige these reflections, 'till my hum- 
our should ferrarnt into the most acrid chagrin, 
that would corrode the ver\ thread of life. 

To couQterwork these baneful fe^ lings, I 
have sat ilow to write to you } as 1 declare 
npon my -soal 1 always tind ihat tiie most sove- 
reign baira for my wounded spirit. 

I was yest*rdat at Mr 'g to dinner, 

for the tirst time. My reception was quite to 
uy uuud i from tbe I dy ot the house quite 
flattering. !ibe sometimes uits on a couplet or 
two, twprfmptiu iiic repeated one or two 
to the admiration ot all present. -My suflfrage 
aii a prsfi^fuoaal ms.n was expocted i 1 for on»ti 
fmat agoo-eiLig j«er ine b«lly of mj cou- 



scienee. Pardon me, ye, my adored fa«HS»' 
hold gods. Independence of Spirit, and Integ- 



Johnson's Musical Museum, a collection of 
Scottish songs with the mnsic, was talked of. 
We got a song on th« harpsichord, begia- 
ning 

' • Raving winds around her blowing. '• 



r was much admired : the lady of the 
asked me whose were the words — 
i, madam — they are indeed my very best 
" she took not the smallest notice of 
The old Scottish proverb says, well, 

'c noff i« hotter llian -iho- fnllr 'i r'nrn " 



!= 



better than ithe.- folk' 

going to make a New Testament qnota- 

it *• casting pearls;" but that would 

irulent, for the lady is actually a wo- 

euse and taste. 



man of 

After all that has been said on the other 
side of the question, man is by no means a 
happy creature. 1 do not speak of the select- 
ed few, favoured by partial heaven, whose 
souls are tuned to gladuess amid riches and 
honours, and prudence end wisdom — 1 speak 
of the neglected many, whose nerves, whose 
sinews, whose days are sold to the minions of 
fortune. 

If I thought yon had never seen it, I would 
transcribe for jou a stanza of an old Scottish 
ballad, called The LJe and Age o/ Man, be- 
ginning thus, 

•• 'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year 
Of God, and htty three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought as dear. 
As writings lestihe. " 

I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my 
mother lived a while in her girlish years; the 
good old man, for such he was, was long blind 
ere he died, during which time, his highest 
enjovmeat was to sit down and cry, while my 
mother would sing the simple old song of The 
Life and Age of M^TU 

it is thin way of thinking— it is those me- 
lancholy truths, that mate religion so precious 
to the poor, miserable children of men — If it 
is a mere phantom, existing only in the heated 
imagination of enthusiasm, 

•• \Miat truth on earth so preciocs a* the 



My idle reasonings sometimes make me a 
little sceptical, but the necessities of my heart 
always give the cold philosophizings the lie. 
>Vho looks for the heart weaned from earth ; 
the soul affianced to her God; the correspon- 
dence fixed with heaven ; the pious supplica- 
tion and devout thanksgiving, constant as the 
vicissitudes of even and morn ; who thinks to 
meet with these in the court, the palace, in 
the glare of public life f Not to had them 
in their precious importance and divine effi- 
cacy, we must search among the obscure re- 
cesses of disappointment, affliction, poverty, 
and distress. 

1 am sore, dear madam, you or*) now more 
than pleased with the U^th of my letters. I 
return to Ayrshire, middle of next wetk i and 
It quickans my pace to think thai there wiU 



BURNS— LETTERS. 



Ill 



b« a letter from you waiting me fh< 
b« here iigain verj soou for mj liar 



TO R- GRAHAM OF FINTRY. ESQ. 



When 1 had the hononr of being introduced 
lo you ai Ai hole-house, 1 did uot think so 
soon of asking a favour of you. When Lear, 
in Shakspeare, asks old Kent, why he wibhed 
to be in hii service, he answers, •• Becai>se yon 
have that in your face which I could like (o , 
call master. '' For some such reason, sir, do I ! 
now solicit your patronnge. You know, 1 
d-ire say. of'an application I lately made to 
>our Board to be acniiitted an officer of excioe. 
i bave, according to form, been exannneii b_\ a 

with a request for an order for instructions. 
In thi= at5air, if I succeed, 1 am afraid 1 shall 
but too mu>-.b need a patronizing friend. Pro- 
priety of conduct as a man, and lidelity and 
attention as an officer, 1 dare eujrage for ; but 
with any thing like business, except manual 
labour, 1 am totally unacquainted. 

I had intended to have closed my late ap- 
pearance on the staj;e of life, in the churaolt* 
of a eoumry farmer; but after discharging 
gome filial and fraternal claims, 1 find 1 could 
only light for existence in that miserable man- 
ner, which I have lived to see ihrOvv a venera- 
ble parent into the jaws of a jail ; whence 
death, the poor man's last and often best 
friend, rescued him. 

1 know, sir, that to need your goodness is 
to have a claim on it; may 1 thrrefore beg 
your patronatfe to forward me in this afl'air, 
till 1 be appointed to a division, where, by thf 
help of rigid economy, 1 will try to support 
that independence so dear to my soul, but 
which hab beeu too often so distant from my 



She form'U of various parts the v^ious man. 

Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry, and sober vorth ; 
ITience peasants, farmers, native sons of 

earth. 
And merchandise' whole gentu take their 

birth. 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds. 
And all nieobanics' many-apron 'ci kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted jet. 
The lead and buoy are tieedful to the uet t 
The caput morlumn of gross desires 
jyjakes a material, for mere kiiigbts and 

The martial phosphorus is taught to flow. 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough. 
Then marks the unyielding mass With grave 

Law, physics, politics, and deep divines i 
Last, she siioiimes th' Aurora of th« poles, 
llie iiadbiitg eieuieiiis of female sutds. 



The order 'd system fair before h»r stood« 
Nature well pleased proneni>ced h very good : 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er. 
Half-jest, she tried one eurioiu labour mora. 
Some spumy, fiery, i^ufaluus matter ; 
Such as the siightebt breath of air might Bcab- 

With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may hare her whim as well as we. 
Her Hogarth -art perhaps she meant to show it) 
She forms a ihln?, and christens it — a post. 
Creature, though oft the prey of care and sor- 

WTien bles's Q to-day unmindful of to-morrow, 
A being form'd t' amuse^his graver friends. 
Admired and praised — and there the homage 

exids : 
A mortal quiie unfit for fortune's strife. 

Yet oft the ^port of ali the ills o.' life ; 
Prune to eii;yv each pleasure riches give. 
Vet haply waniing wherewithal to live : 
Loiigiiis to wipe each tear, to heal each 



Yet frequt 



iiiheeded in his owiu 



jrk. 

Pitying lh» propless climber of mankind. 
She cast about a nandaru tree to find ; 
And to support his helpless woodbine stute. 
Attach 'd h.m to tiie ^LUi-rniii truly great ; — 
A title, and the only one 1 ciaim. 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteoui 



Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train. 
Weak, timia laiicnieii on life's stormy main! 
The.- beans no selh,h stern absorbent stuff, 
Thar ne^er gives — tho' humbly takes eiiough | 

Unlike sage, proverb "d, w'lsdom 'k hara- wrung 

boon. 
The world were bless 'd, did bliss on them de- 

pend. 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a 

Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son. 
Who life and w l^clom at one race be-.'un, 
Wlio feel bv reason, and who irive bv rule, 
(Instil, :t's a brute, and ieiitinient a"fool !) 
Who make poor wiil do wait upon I should — 
We own they 're prudent, but who feels tiiey 're 

good ? 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye! 
(iod's image ruueU etch 'd on base alloy .' 
Put come, ye who the godlike pleasure know. 
Heaven's attribute distinguish 'd— to bestow ! 
W hose arms of love would grasp the human 

Come, thou v\ho givesi with all & courtier's 

grace ; 
Friend o; my life, true patron of mj rhymes ! 
Prop of my deare*' hopes for future times. 
Whv shrinks my soul, half blushing, half ifiaid. 
Backward, abash 'd to ask thy friendly aid ? 
1 know iQv need, 1 know thy giving hand, 
1 crave thy friendship at thy kind command; 
But there aie such who court the tuneful nine—. 
Heavens, should the branded character be 

Whose verse in manhood's pride subUmelj 

flows. 
Yet ir? M reptiles in tb«» tegging pree*. 



112 



DUMOND CABINET L1BR.\RY. 



Mark, how their lofty indepeudent spirit 
t<oars on the spurning wing of injured merit 1 
Seek not the proofs in pnvate life to tin J ; 
Pity, the best of words bhoiild be but wind ! 
So to heaven's gate* the lark-shriU song 

But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 
In all the clamorous cry of starving want. 
They dun benevolence with shameless front ; 
Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays, 
They persecute you all your future days I 
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain. 
My horny fist, assume the plough again ; 
The pie-ball 'd jacket let me patch once more ; 
On eighteen pence a-week I've lived before. 
Though, thanks to hea\en, I dare even that 

last shift, 
I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift : 
That placed br thee, upon the wished-for 

height, 
Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, 
AJy muse may iujp her wing for some sublii 

flight. * 



No. LXL 

TO xMR P. HILL, 

MaucMitie, 1st Octohei; 178S. 
I have been here in this country about thre* 
clays, and all that time my chief reading ha- 
been the "Address to Lochlomond, " yor 
were so obliging as to send to nie. Were ] 
impannelledone'of the author's jury, to de- 
tei-mine his criminality respecting the sin ol 
poesy, my verdict should be '• Guilty I a poet 
«f Nature's mafang 1 " It is an excellent me- 
thod for improvement, and what I believe 
every poet does, to place some favourite classic 
author, in his own walks of study and compo- 
sition, before him, as a model. Though 
your author had not mentioned the name," " 
could have, at half a glance, guessed bis model 
to be Thomson. Will mj brotiie; poei forj 
me, if I venture to hint, that tiih I'luitai-.oi 
that immortal bard, is in two or thre« pi; 
rather more servile than such a genius as 
required. — e. g. 



I think the Address is, in simplicity, har- 
mony, and elegance of versification, fulfy eoual 
to the Seasoiis. Like Thomson, too, he 'has 
looked into nature for himself ; you meet with 
no copied description. One particular criti- 
cism I made at first reading : in no one in- 
stance has he said too much." He never flags 



* This is onr poet 's first epistle to Graham 
of Fintry. It is not equal to the second, but 
it contains too much of the characteristic vigour 
of its author to be suppressed, A little more 
knowledge of natural history cr of chemistry 
was wanted to enable him to" execute iliB cri'- 
g-inal ccuceiUica crrrectjy. 



in his progress, but like a true Poet of Nature's 
making, kindles iu his course. His bf^inuiiig 
is simple, and modest, as if distrustful of the 
strength of his pinion : only, I do not altoge- 



Fiction is the soul of many a song that is 
nobly great. Perhaps I am wrong: ibis may- 
be but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase,- 
in liiie 7, page 6, " Great lake," too niiali 
vulgarized by ererv-da" language, for so sub- 
lime a poem ? 



i of waters, theme for nobler 



; perhaps no emendation. 

f a comparison with other lakes, is at once 
harmonious and poetic Every reader's ideas 
must sweep the 

" Winding margin of an hundred miles. " 

The perspective that follows mountains blue 
— the imprisoned billows beating in vain -the 
wooded isles- the digression of the yew tree — 
' ' Ben Lomond 's loftv cloud-enveloped head , 
&c. are beautiful. A thunder-storm is a sub- 
ject which has been often tii;d, yet our p.^t, 
iu his grand picture, has inirjetAed a eircum. 
stance, so far as i know, entirtlv original : 



Deep s: 



lire. ' 



a 'd witn frecuent s 



' The glcora 



In his preface to the storm, " the glens how 
dark between, " is noble Highland lantlscape ! 
The •' rain plowing the red mould," too, is 
beautifully fancied. Ben Lomond's " lofiv, 
pathless top, " is a g< od expression; and the 
sturoundiug view from it is truly great ; the 



is well described ; and here, he has contrived 
to enliven bis poem with a little of that passion 
which bids fair, 1 think, to ustirp the nuiaern 
mases altogether. I know not how far this 
episode is a beauty upon the whole, but -lie 
swain's wish to carry •' some faint idea of the 
vision bright, " io entertain her "partial lis^ 
tening ear, " is a pretty thought. But, in iny 
opinion, the m^st beauuful passages in flie 
whole poeTn, are the fowls crowding, in wintry 
frosts, to Loeliiomond's "hospitable flood ;'"' 
their wheeling round, their lighting, mixing, 
diving, &C. ai:0 the glorious description of tlie 
:»uinn. '1 : is Isst is equal to any thing in 
the Stasons. ". he idea of ' ' the floating tribes 
distant seen, far glistering to the moou,'^" pro- 
yoking his eye rs he is obliged to leave them, 
is a noble ray cf poetic genius. " The howl- 
ing winds, ".the " hideous roar" of "the 
white cascades, " are all in the same style. 

I forget that while I am thus holding' forth, 
with the heedless warmth of an eutliusiast, I 
am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. 1 must, 
however, n^enfion, that the last verse of the 
sUtceuih i'age is gae cf ihc.musi ciogant com- 



BURNS—LETTERS. 



pHmeats I have ever seen. I must likewise 
notice that beautiful paragraph, beginninsr, 
"The gleaming lake," &c. I dare not go 
into the particular beauties of the two last 
paragraphs, but they are admirably fine, aud 
truly Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this lengthened 
ECrawL I had no idea of it when I began — I 
should like to know who the author is ; but, 
whoever he be, please present him with my 
grateful thanks for the entertainment he has 
afl'orded me. * 

A friend of mine desired me to commission 
for him two books. Letters on the Religion es- 
sential to Man, a book you sent me before ; 
and. The World Uiinmsked, or the Philosopher 
the greatest Cheat, Send me them by the lirst 
opportunity. The BMe you sent me is truly 
elegant j 1 only wish it had been in two vo- 



TO MRS DUNLOP, AT aiOREHAJI 
IVIAINS. 

MavxMine, I3th November, 17S8. 

MADAM, 

I had the very great pleasure of dining at 
Dunlop yesterday. Men are said to liatter 
women because they are weak ; if it is so, 
poets must be weaker still ; for Misses R- and 
K. and Miss G. M'K. with their flattering 
attentions, and artful compliments, absolutely 
turned my head. I own they did not lard me 
oyer as many a poet does his patron 

• • _ but they so intoxicated 

me with their sly insinuations and delicate inu- 
endos of compliment, that if it had not been 
for a lucky recollection, how much additional 
weight and lustre your good opinion and friend- 
ship must give me in that circle, I had cer- 
tainly looked upon myself as a person of no 
small consequence. I dare not say one word 
how much 1 was charmed -nith the major's 
friendly welcome, elegant manner, and acute 
remark, lest I should be thought to balance 
my orientalisms of applause over against the 
finest queyt in Ayrshire, which he made a 
present of to help and adorn my farm-stock. 
As it was on hallow-day, I am determined 
annually as that day returns, to decorate her 
horns with an ode of gratitude to the famil'' of 
Daalop. 

So soon OS I know of your amval at Dun- 
lop, I will take the first conveniency to dedi- 
cate a day, or perhaps two, to you and friend- 
ship, under the guarantee of the major's 
hospitality. These will soon be threescore 



* The poem entitled An Jddress to Loch 
Lomond, is said to be written by a gentleman 
now one of the masters of the High School at 
Edinburgh, and the same vho translated the 
beautiful story of the Paria, as published in 
the Bee uf Dr Anderson. 

tUeifer. -•■;.;y -., 



and ten miles of permanent distance betweea 
us ; and dow that yoixr friendship and friendly 
correspondence is entwisted with the heart- 
strings of my enjoyment of life, 1 laust indulge 
myself in a happy day of " The feast of reasta 
and the flow of soul. ' ' 



SIR, November, 8, 1788. 

Notwithstanding the opprobrious epithets with 
which some of our philosophers and gloomy 
sectaries have branded our nature— the princi- 
ple of universal selfishness, the proneness to 
all evil, they ha\e given us; stilJ, the detes- 
tation in which inhumanity to the distressed, 
or insolence to the fallen, are held by all man- 
kind, shows that they are not natives of the 
human heart. — Even the unhappy partner of 
our kini', who is undone — the bitter conse- 
quence of his follies or his crimes — who but 
sympathizes with the miseries of this ruined 
proliigate brother ? we forget the injuries, and 
feel lor the man. 

i went last Wednesday to my parish church, 
most cordially to join in grateful acknowledg- 
ments to the Author of all Good, for the con- 
sequent blessings of the glorious revolution. 
To that auspicious event we owe no less than 
our liberties civil and religious ; to it we are 
likewise indebted for the present Eoyal Fami- 
ly, the ruling features of whose administration 
haie ever been, mildness to the subject, and 
tenderness of his rights. 

lired and educated in revolution principles, 
the principles of reason and common sense, it 
cuuid not be any silly political prejudice which 
miioe my heart revolt at the harsh, abusive 
manner, in which the reverend gentleman 
mentioned tne House of Stuart, and which, I 
am afraid, was too much the language of the 
day. ^Ve may rejoice sufficiently ■! our deli- 
verance from past evils, without cruelly raking 
up the ashes of those, whose misfortune it was, 
perhaps as much as their crime, to be the 
authors of those evils ; and we may bless God 
for all his goodness to us as a nation, without, 
at the same time, cursing a few ruined, power- 
less exiles, who only harboured ideas, an 
made attempts, that most of us would ha 
done, had we been in their situation. 

"The bloody .'nd , tjTannical House of 
Stuart, " may be said with propriety and jus- 
tice when compared with the .present Royal 
Family, and the sentiments of our days ; but 
is there no allowance to be made for the man- 
ners of the times ? Were the royal contempo- 
raries of the Stuarts more attentive to their 
subjects' rights? Might not the epithets of 
"bloody and tyrannical,'' be, with at least 
equal justice, applied to the House of Tudor, 
of York, or any other of their predecessors ? 

The simple state of the case, sir, seems ta 
be this — At that period the science of govern- 
", the knowledge of the true relation be- 
a king and subject, was, lika other sci- 
ences and other kuowiedge, just in itb infancy, 
H 



114 



DL4MON1 CABINET LIBRARY. 



CKJWi,'ing from darV ages of ignorance and bar- 
barity. 

Th* StDarte c.nly eonleudecl for prerofratives 
which they knew thejr predecessors enjojed, 
f^ud vvbich they saw their conienjporaries en- 
joying ; but thesb prerogatives were iniroiciU to 
the happiness of a nation, iind tht- rights of 
feubjects. 

In this contest between prince and people, 
the consequence of that liffht of ecieuce, whioli 
had lately dawned over Europe, the monarch 
of France, for example, •was victorious over 
the strugjfliug liberties of bis people: with us, 
luckily the monarch failed, aud his unwarran- 
table pretensious fell a sacrilice to our rights 
luid happiness. Whether it was owiug to the 
wisdom of leading individuals, or to the just- 
iing of parties, 1 caunot pretend to determine; 
but likewise, happily for us. the kingly power 
was shifted into another branch of the family, 
who, as they owed the throne solely to the call 
of a free people, could claim nothing ineousis- 
tent with the covenanted terms which placed 
them there. 

The Stuarts hare been condemned and 
laughed at tor the folly and irapracticabilitv of 
their attempts in 1715 and 1745. That they 
failed, 1 bless God ; but cannot join in the 
ridicule against them. Who does not know 
that the abilities or defects of leaders and 
commanders are often bidder until put to the 
touchstone of exigency ; aud that there is a 
caprice of fortune, an omnipotence in particu- 
lar accidentg and conjunctures of circumstances, 
which exalt us as heroes, or brand us as mad- 
men, just as they are for or against us ? 

Wan, Mr Publisher, is a strange, weak, in- 
consistent being. Who would believe, sir, 
that, in this our Augustan age of liberality and 
-etinenient, while we seem so justly sensible 
and jealous of our rights and liberties, and aai- 
maied wiih such indignation against the very 
memory of those who would navc subverted 
them— that a certain people, tindsr our na- 
tional protectiou, should complain not against 
our monarch and a few favourite advisers, but 
•'»inst our whole Legislative Body, for similar 
oppression, and almost in the very same terms, 
as our forefathers did of the House of Stuart ! 
I will not, I cannot enter into the merits of the 
cause, but I dare say the American Congress, 
in 1776, will be allowed to be as ab'e and as en- 
lightened as the English convention was in 
16S8 ; and that their posterity will celebrate the 
centenary of their deliverance from us, as duly 
and sincerely as we do ours from the oppressive 
measures of tho wrong-headed House of Stuart. 

To conclude, sir ; let every man who has a 
fear for the many miseries incident to humani. 
ty, feel for a family illustrious as any in Eu- 
rope, and unfortunate beyond historic prece- 
dent ; and let every Briton (and particularly 
every Scotsman), who ever looked with reve- 
rential pity on the dotage of a parent, cast a 
veil over the fatal mistakes of the kings of hig 
forefathers.^ 



* This letter was sent to the publish^ of 
some newspaper, probably the publisher of the 
Edinburgh Eveiiing Co'uraiU. 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

ESlisland, I7lh December, 1788 

MT DEAR RONOURSD »RIEND, 

Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have jusi 
read, makes me very unhappy. Almost »• blind 
and wholly deaf, " are melancholy news of hu- 
man nature ; but when told of a much loved 
and honoured friend, they carry misery in tba 
sound. Goodness oq your part, and gratitude 
on mine, began a tie, which has gradually and 
strongly eutwisted itself among the dearest 
chords of my bosom ; and I tremble at the 
omens of your late aud present ailing habits 
and shattered health. You miscalculate mat- 
ters widely, when you forbid my waiting OQ 
you, le^t it snould hurt my worldly concerns. 
iMy small scale of farming is exceediusrly more 
simple and easy than what vou have lately 
seen at Worehain Mains. But be that as it 
may, the heart of the man, aud the fjncy of 
the poet, are the two grand considerations" for 
which I live; if miry ridges, ana duty dung- 
hills are to engross the best part of th<> func- 
tions of my soul immortal, 1 had better been 
a rook or a magpie at once, and tht-n I should 
not have been plagued with any iceas superior 
to breaking of clods, and picking tip grubs t 
not to mention barn-door cocks or mallards, 
creatures with which I could almost exchange 

lives at any time If you continue so deaf, I 

am afraid a visit will be no great pleasure to 
either of us ; bot if I hear yon are got so well 
again as to be able to relvsh conversation, look 
you to it, madam for 1 will make my threaten- 
ings good : 1 am to be at the new-yeardhy 
fair of Ayr, and by all that is sacred iu tils 
world, friend, I will come aud see you. 

Your meeting, which you bo well describe, 
with your old schoolfellow and friend, was truly 
interesting. Out upon the ways of the world I 
— They spoil these "social oflsprings of the 
heart." Two veterans of the "men of the 
world" would have met, with little more heart- 
workings than two old hacks worn out on the 
road. Apropos, is not the Scotch phrase, 
*'Auld lang syne," exceedingly expressiv*. 
There is an old song and tune which has often 
thrilled through my soul. You know I am an 
enthusiast in old Scotch songs. I shall give 
you the verses on the other sheet, as 1 suppose 
Mr Ker will save yoa the postage. f 

Light be the turf on the breast of the Hea- 
ven-inspired poet who composed this glorious 
fragment I There is more of the lire of native 
genius in it, than in half a dozen of modern 
Englisbi Bacchanalians. Now I am on my 
hobby horse, I cannot help inserting two Other 
old stanzas, which please me mightilj 

Go fetch to me a pint o* wine. 

An' nil it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink, before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leilh ; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, 



t Here follows the aong of Auld lang syna. 



BURNS LETTERS. 



The ship rideg by the Berwick-law, 
And I maun lea'e tny boaiiie ftJary, 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly. 

The glittering spears are ranked ready t' 
The shouts o' war are heard afar. 

The battle closes thick and bloody t 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore. 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar. 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WHO HAD HEARD HE HAD BEEN MAKINO 

A BAU,AD ON HKR, INGLOSINO THAT 

BALLAD* 

MADAM, December, 1788. 

I understand my very worthy neighliour, Mr 
Riddel, has informed you that 1 have made 
you the subject of some verses. There is 
boineihing bo provoking in the idea of being 
i the bumen of a ballad, that I do not think 

I Job or flloses, though such patterns of pa- 

tience and meekness, could have resisted the 
curiosity to know what (hat ballad was; so 
my worthy friend has done me a mischief, 
which I dare say he never intended ; and re- 
duced me to the unfortunate alternative of leav- 
ing your curiosity ungratitied, or else disgusting 
■ you with foolish verses, the unfinished produc- 

tion of a random moment, and never meant to 
have met your ear. 1 have heard or read 
somewhere of a gentlemaR, who had some 
genius, much eccentricity, and very consider- 
able dexterity with his penciL In the acciden- 
tal groups of life into which one is thrown, 
wherever this gentleman met with a character 
in a more than ordinary degree congenial to 
his heart, he used to steal a sketch of the face, 
merely he said as a nota bene to point out the 
agreeable recollection to his memory. What 
this gentleman's pencil was to him, is my muse 
to me : and the verses 1 do myself the honour 
to send you are a memento exactly of the same 
kind that he indulged in. 

It may be more owing to the fastidiousness 
of my caprice, than the delicacy of my taste, 
that I am so often tired, disgusted, and hurt 
with the insipidity, affectation, and pride of 
mankind, that when I meet with a person 
" after my own heart, " 1 positively feel what 
an orthodox protestant would call a species of- 
idolatry, which acts on my fancy like inspira- 
tion, and I can no more desist rhyming on the 
impulse, than an iEk)lian harp can refuse its 
tones to the streaming air. A distich or two 
would be the consequence, though the object 
which hit my fancy were grey-bearded age: 
but where my theme is youth and beauty, a 
young lady whoso personal charms, wit, and 
sentiment, are eqnally striking and unaft'ected, 
by heavens! thotigh I hud lived threescore years 
a married man, and threescore years before I 
was a married man, my imagination would 
hallow the very idea ; and 1 am truly sorry 
that the inclosed stanzas aave aoae such poor 
JUAtioQ to 3ucb a subj'jsu 



TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD. 

sm, December, 1788. 

Mr M'Renrie, in Mancbline, my yery warm 
and worthy friend, has informed me how much 
you are pleased ta interest yourself in my fate 
as a man, and, (what to me is incomparably 
dearer) my fame as a poet. I have, sir, in one 
or two instances, been patronized by those of 
your character in life, when I was introduced 

to their notice by , friends to them and 

honoured acquaintances to me : but you are the 
first gentleman in the country whose benevo- 
lence and goodness of heart has interested him 
for me, niisolicited and unknown. I am not 
master enough of the etiquette of these matters 
to know, nor did I stay to inquire, whether 
formal duty bade, or cold propriety disallowed, - 
my thanking you in this manner, as I am con« 
vinced, from the light in which you kindly 
view me, that yon will do me the justice to 
believe this letter is not the manoeuvre of a 
needy, sharping author, fastening on those in 
upper life, who honour him with a little notice 
of him or his works. Indeed the situation 'o 
poets is generally such, to a proverb, as may, 
in some measure palliate that prostitution ot 
heart and talents they have at times been guilty 
of. I do not think prodigality is, by any means, 
a necessary concomitant of a poetic turn, but 
believe a careless, indolent inattention to eco- 
nomy, is almost inseparable from it ; then there 
must be in the heart of every bard of Nature's 
making, a cercain modest sensibility, mixed 
with a kind of pride, that will e\er keep him 
out of the way of those windfalls of fortune, 
which frequently light on hardy impudence and 
foot-licking servility. It is not easy to imagine 
a more helpless slate than his, whose poetic 
fancy unfjls him for the world, and whose 
character as a scholar, gives him some preten- 
sions to the politesse of life — ^yet is as poor as 

For my part, I thank Heaven, my star has 
been kinder ; learning never elevated my ideas 
above the peasant's shed, and 1 have an inde« 
pendent fortune at the plough-tail. 

I was surprised to hear that any one, who 
pretended in the least to the Dianneis oj' (he 
gentleman, should be so foolish, or worse, cs to 
stoop to traduce the morals of such a one as I 
am, and so inhumanly cruel, too, as to me-ddie 
with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part 
of my story. With a tear of gratitude, 1 thank 
you, sir, for the warmth with which you inttr- 
posed in behalf of my conduct. I am, ] ac- 
knowledge, too frequently the sport of whim, 
caprice, and passion — but reverence to (icid, 
and integrity to my fellow-creatures, 1 hope I 
shall ever preserve. I have no return, sir, to 
make you for your goodness but one— a return 
which, I am persuaded, will not be unaccepta- 
ble — the honest, warm wishes of a grateful 
heart for your happiness, and every one of that 
lovely flock, who stand to you in a filial rela'* 
tion. If ever calumny aim the poisoned shaft 
at them, may friendship be by to vrurd the blow) 



Il€ 



v,l.vyiOXD CABINET LIBRARY. 



No. LXVII. 



FROM MR G. BURNS. 

Mossgkl, 1st January, 17S9. 
DEAR BROTHER. 
I have iust finished my new-jear's-day break 
Ltin he usual form. «hich naturally make 
rcTii .0 m,nd the da>s o^o-er ye- and 
the society in wh.ch ^e u^ed to "V." ' , ' 
and when I look at our tam.ly ;"=^'l"f;;' 
"through the dark postern of time long 
elapsed,"^' I cannot help remarking to )0U 
dear brother, how good the God °f ^^ " 
U to us ■ and that however some clouds a.a) 
seem to lower over the portion of lin>e betore 
us we have great reason to hope that all vsiU 
'"voa"r mo\ier and sisters, with Kobert the 
second, joiu me ia the '^''"^P''"-"'^'; ^^.^ 
season to Toa and Mrs Burns, and beg yoi^ v^Ul 
remember^s in the same manner to ^VlUlam, 
Ike lirst time jou see him. 

1 am dear brother, yours, 
GILBERT BURNS. 



. No. LXVIIL 
TO MRS DUNLOP. 

This, dear madam, is a morning of ">shes, 
iad would to God that 1 came under the 
"Jstfe James's descriptiou-rAepva^e,-^/ a 
righteous fium avaiielh rnuckl In that ca^e 
midam, you should welcome m a jear full of 
bessiu-^sl everything that obstructs or dis- 
turbs t?anVillity andlelf-enjoyment, shotddbe 
removed, and every pleasure that frad huum 
nitT can taste, should be yours. I own mjselt 
60 little a Presbyterian, that I approve ot set 
times a^dseasoai of more than ordmarr acts 
of d 'votion, for breaking in on that_ habituated 
routine of Ufe and thought, which is so apt to 
reduce.our existence to a kind of instinct, or 
even sometimes, and with some minds, to a 
state very little superior to mere tnacli.nery. 

This day ; the first Sunday of Maj , a 
breezy, blue^skyed noon some time about the 
besinnin", and a hoary morning and calm =uu 
n?day about the end, of autumn : these time 
out of mind, have been with me a kind ot hoU- 
day. 

I believe I owe this to that glorious paper 
in the Spectator. " The Vision of ihrza ; a 
piece that struck my young fancy before I was 
canable of fixing an idea to a word of three 
!vllables: -On the 5th day of the moon, 
wS'according to the custom of my forefa- 
Siers, I always keep holy, after having washed 
myself, and offered up my morning devotious 
TLceilded the high hill of Bagdat in order to 
pass the^ rest of the day in meditation and 
^Te'kiiow nothing, or next to nothing, of 
the substance or structure of our souls, so 
^nno" account for those seeming caprices n 
them, that one should be particularly pleased 
with this tbinj, or struck with that, which, on 



inds of a different cast, mates no extraordi- 
nary impression. 1 have some fayourite 
flowers in coring, among which are the moun- 
tain daisy, the hare-beO, the fox-glove, the 
wild-brier rose, the budding birch, and the 
hoary hawthorn, that 1 view and hang over 
M°ith particular delight. 1 never hear the loud, 
solitary whistle of the curlew, in a summer 
nnon or the wild mixing cadence of a troop ot 
1 in an autuinnal morning, without 

fJe?ing aTelevation of soul like the enthusiasm 
of devotion or poetry. Tell ™«>,™y J^^^ 
friend, to what can this be owing? '¥^^.''^ 
a oilce of machinery, which, like the Jiohan 
harp, passive, takes the impression of the pas- 
sin- accident "> Or do these workings argue 
.ometbin- within us above the trodden clod t 
I own nnself partial to such proofs of those 
awful and iaiporta.it realities-a God that 
n,ade all tbin|s-man's i^'j^aterial and im- 
mortal nature-and a world of weal or wo 
beyond death apd the grave. 



No. LXIX. 

TO DR MOORE. 

Elluland, near Dumfries, ilh Jan. 1789. 

BIR. , . . 

As often as I think of writing to JO"'. ^^5"=^ 

mv mind mis-^ives me, and the aflair always 
iiii-carr es somewhere between purpose and 
re^ohe.' Thave. at last, got some business 
with vou, and business-letters are written uy 
the style-book. -I say, my business is wuH 
you, sir, for you never bad any with me, ex- 
cept the business that benevolence has in the 

"ThrchlrS^'^d employment of a poet 
were formerly my pleasure, but are now my 

situation, and the honest prejudice of Scots- 
men • but still, as I said in the preface to my 
first edition, I do look upon myself as haMiig 

rjacerra:eranTbu^t£>= 

% ZiA S H^^' wbo'^^'s'he^^ec^et 
f £ o?thrstl^'-bnt l.as firmly brieve that 
excellence in the profession is the ^uit of in 

t'^^^^iotedl/rry-doc^^ 

1 am resolved to try j ^ ^^^ce from the 

j:.1„.,, ^ov n davthat 



dfsunt day, a day thaL 
mIvVe^Vr' ^"riV^elbui poesy I am determined 
fo pro. ut^with aU my vigour. Nature baa 
liven very few, if any, of the profession, the 

f^^LZ W hni-hed a piece, it has been so 
XnTewe'd S'rSiew'ed t^f-^thejeii^ol 

pi^eS^f^critS^t'rllu^Uon: Uer^ the 



BURNS—LETTERS. 



117 



bttt criterion I know is a friend — not only of 
abilities tu judge, but with good nature euough, 
like a prudent teacher with a young learner, to 
praise perhaps a little more than is exactly 
just, lest the thin-skinned animal fall into that 
most deplorable of all poetic diseases— heart- 
breaking despondency of himsetf. Dare 1, sir, 
already immensely indebted to your goodness, 
ask the additional obligation of your being that 
friend to me ? I inclose you an essay of mine, 
iu a walk of poesy to me entirely new ; I mean 
the epistle addressed to R. G. E^^q. or Robert 
Grsham of Fintry, Esq. a gen"' - "■ "^ 



jrth, 



very 



great obligations. The story of the poem, 
most of my poems, is connected -vvith my own 
Story, and to give you the one, I mubt gue 
you something of the other. 1 cannot boast 
of 

I believe, I shall, in whole, lAOO copy-right 
included, clear about L4i)0 seme little odds ; 
and even part of this depends upon what the 
gentleman has yet to settle with me. I give 
you this information, because you did me the 
honour to interest yourself much in my wel- 

To give the rest of my story in brief, I have 
jnarried " my Jean, " and taken a farm ; with 
the first step I have every day more and more 
reason to be satisfied; with the last, it is 
rather the reverse. I have a younger brother, 
who supports my aged mother ; another still 
younger brother, and three sisters, in a farm. 
On my last return from Edinburgh, it cost me 
about L180 to save them from ruin. >>ot 
tliat I have lost so much— I only interposed 
between my brother and his impending fate by 
the loan of so much. 1 give myself no airs 
on this, for it was mere selfishness on my part ; 
I was conscious that the wrong scale of the 
balance was pretty heavily charged, and I 
thought that throwing a little filial piety, anu 
fraternal affection, into the scale in my favour, 
might help to smooth matters at the grand 
reckoning. There is still one thing would 
make my circumstances quite easy ; 1 have an 
excise officer's commission, and I live in the 
midst of a country division. My request to 
Mr Graham, who is one of the commissioners 

that division.' If I were very sanguine, I 
might hope that some of my great patrons 
might procure me a treasury warrant for su- 
pervisor, surveyor-general, &c. 

Thus secure of a livelihood, • • to tliee, sweet 
poetry, delightful maid," I would consecrate 
my future days. 



No. LXX. 
TO BISHOP GEDDES. 
Ellhland Tiear Dumfries, 3d Feb. 1789. 

VENERABLE yATHEB, 

As I am conscious that wherever I am you do 
me the honour to interest yourself in my wel- 
fare, it gives me pleasure to inform you, that I 
am here at last, gtationarj ia the serious 



business of life, and have now not only the 
retired leistre, but the hearty inclination to 

attend to those great and important questions 

what I am, where I am, and for what I am 
destined. 

In that first concern, the condsict of the 
man, there w as ever but one side on which I 
was habitually blameable, and there I have 
secured myself in the way pointed out by 
N'aiure and JN'a lure's God. I was sensible 
tliat, to so helpless a creature as a poor poet, 
a wife and family were incumbrances, whictl 
peci^s of prudence would bid hin 



but 



irfara 



the a 



s at e 



lal 



1 account of habitual 

general example, no licentious wit, no sophis- 
tical infidelity would, to me, ever justify, I 
must have been a fool to have hesitated, and a 
madiwan to have made another choice. 

In the aflair of a livelihood, I think myseli* 
lolert.bly secure ; I Lave good hopes of my 
farm; but should they tail, 1 have an excise 
commission, which on uiy simple petition, 
will, at any time, procure 'me bread. There 
is a certain stigma affixed to the character of 
an excise officer, but I do not intend to borrow 
honour from any profession ; and though the 
salary be comparatively small, it is great to 
any thing that the first twenty-five years of my 
life taught me lo expect. 



Thus 



vitha 



ional aim and method in 
life, you may easily guess, my reverend and 
much-honoured friend, that my characteristical 
trade is not forgotten. I am, if possible, more 

determined lo study man and nature, and in 
that view incessantly ; and lo try if the ripen- 
ing and corrections of years can enable me to 
produce something worth preserving. 

You will see in your book, which I beg 
jouif pardon for detaining so long, ihat I have 
been tuning my lyre on the banks of Nith. 
Some larger poetic plans that are lloating in my 
imaffination, or narilv put in execution, I shall 
' ' ' ' ' the plea 



with ^ 



!h, if y 



e thei 



cquaintance, worthy sir, with which 
pleased to honour me, you must still 
! to challenge ; for, with whatever 
jive up my transient connection 
with the merely great, I cannot lose the pan 
tronizing notice of the learned and the good, 
vrithout the bitterest regret. 



No. LXXI. 
FROM THE REV. P. C- 



SIB, 2d January, 1789. 

If you have lately seen Mrs Dunlop of Dun- 
lop, you have certainly heard of the author of 
the verses which accompany this letter. H« 
was 0. man highly respectable for every accom- 
plishment and virtue which adorns the char- 
acter of a man or a Christian. To a great 



lis 



DIAJIOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



decree nfliterature, of taste, and poetic genius, 
waa added an invincible modesty of temper, 
whicT prevented, in a great degree, his figuring 
in iite, and confined the perfect knowledge of 
his character and talents to the small c.rcle of i 
bis .-hosen friends. He was antiinely taken . 
from us, a few weeks ago, by an inllanimaiorjf ^ 
fe%-er, ia the prime of life— beloved by all i 
who enjoyed his acquaintance, and lamented by j 
all who have any regard for virtue or genius. 
The'e is a woe pronounced in Scripture ajraiiist 
the person whom all men speak well of; if. 
ever that woe fell upon the bead of mortal 
mau, it fell upon him. He has left behind | 
him a considerable numbir ot compositions, . 
chietly poetical; »ufficitni. I imagine, to make ; 
a large octavo volume. In particular, two : 
complete and regular tragedies, a farce of 
three acts, and some smaller poems on differ- 
ent subjects. It falls to ray share, who have 
lived in the most intimate and uninterrupted 
friendship with him from my youth upwards, 



J the V 



the 



publication of your incomparable poems. It 
is probable they were his last, rs they were 
found in his scrutoire, folded up with the form 
of a letter addressed to you, and I imagine, 
were only prevented from being sent by him- 
self by that melancholy dispensation which we 
still bemoan. The Terses themselves I will 
not pretend to criticise when writing to a 
gentleman whom I consider aa entirely quali- 
tied to judge of their merit. They are the 
only versei he seems to have attempted in the 
Scottish 5tyle: and I hesitate not to say, in 
general, that they will bring no dishonour on 
the Scottish muse; — and allow me to add, that 
if it is your opinion they are not unworthy of 
the author, and will be no discredit to you, it 
is the inclination of Mr Mylue"s friends that 
they should be immediately published iu some 
periodical work, to give the world a specimen 
of what may be expected from his performances 
in the poetic line, which, perhaps, will be 
afterwards published for the advantage of his 
family. 

I mast beg the favour of a letter from you, 
acknowledging the receipt of this, and to be 
allowed to subscribe myself with great regard. 
Sir, your most obedient servant. 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

EUisland, Ath March, 1789. 
Her* am I, my honoured friend, returned safe 
from the capital. To a man, who has a home, 
however humble or remote — if that home is 
like mine, the scene of domestic comfort — the 
bastle of Edinburgh will soon be 
sickening disgust. 



"Vain 



pomp a 

OB 1 •• 



1 glory of this world, I bate 



should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted 
to exclaim — '• What merits has he had, ol 
what demerit have I had, in some state of pro 
existence, that he is ushered into this state j» 
being with the sceptre of rule, and the key of 
riches, in his puny tist, and I am kicked "into 
the world, the sport of folly, or the victim of 
pride ?'' I have read iomewhere of a monarch 
(iu Spain I think it wa«,) who was so out of 
humour with the Ptolemean lystem of astro- 
nomy, that be said, had he been of the Crea- 
tor's council, he could navs saved him a great 
deal of labour and absurdity. I will not de- 
fend this bla»piiemou8 speech ; but often, as I 
have glided with bumble stealth through the 
pomp of Prince's Street, it has suggested itself 
to me, as an improvement on the present hu- 
man figure, that a man, in proportion to his 
own conceit of his consequence in the world, 
could have pushed out the longitude of bis 
common size, as a snail pushes out bis horns, 
or as we draw out a perspective. This trifling 
alteration, not to men. ion the prodijiious saving 
it would be in the tear and wear of ihe neck 
and limb-sinews of many ot bis Majesty's liege 
subjects in the way of'to^^sing the head and 
tiptoe strutting, would evidently tnru out a 
vast advantage, in enabling us at once to aujost 
the ceremonials in making a bow, or rahking 
way 10 a great man, and that too within a 
second of the precise spherical angle of reve- 
rence, or an inch of the particular point of 
respectful dislancCj which the important crea- 
ture itself requires: as a measuring-glance at 
its towering altitude would determine the affair 
like instinct. 

You are right, madam, in your idea of poor 
Mylne's poem, which he has addressed to me. 
The piece has a good deal of merit, but it has 
one great fault — it is, by far, too long. Be- 
tides, my success has encoaraged such a shoal 
of ill-spawned monsters to crawl into public 
notice, under the title of Scottish Poets, that 
the very term of Scottish Poetry borders on 

the burlesque. When I write to Mr C , 

I shall advisn him rather to try one of bis de- 
ceased friend's English pieces. I am prodigi- 
ously hurried with my own matters, else I 
would have requested a perusal of ail Mylne's 
poetic performances ; and would have offered 
his friends my assistance in either selecting or 
correcting what would be proper for the press. 
What it is that occupies me so much, and 
perhaps a little oppresses my present spirits, 
shall till up a paragraph in some future letter. 
In the meantime allow me to close this epistle 
with a few lines done by a friend of mine . . 
... I give you them, that as you have seen 
tbo ori^nal, you may guess whether one or 
two alterations I have ventured to make in 
them, be any real improvement. 

Like the fair plant that from our touch with- 

Shrink mildly fearful even from applause. 
Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream. 
And all you are, my charming , seem. 

Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells disclose. 
Mild as the maideo-blnshing hawthorn blows. 
Fair as the fairest of easb lovely kind. 
Your form shall be the image of your mind s 
Your mannerei rnall so true your soni express. 
That all shall long to know the worth thej 
g^tessi 



BURNS.— LETTERS. 



Congenial Learts shall greet with kindred love, 
And even sieic otug euv^ uiubt upprove.sv 



No. LXXIII. 
TO THE REV. P. CARFUAE. 

RBVKRKND SIR, 1769. 

1 do not recollect tha» T hav«« evpr felt n seTe- 
rer paog of shame, lUan on lockiti'; a! ".j* tiate 
of your obliging letter, which acoviupuiiied Mr 
Maine's poeui. 

I am much to blame t the honour Mr Mytne 
Las done me, greailj enhanced in iu value by 
the endearing, ihonsh melancholy circum- 
stance, of iu being the last production of bis 
muse, deserved a better return. 

1 have, as you hint, thought of sending a 
copy of the poem to some periodical publica- 
tion J but, on serond thoughts, I am afraid 
that, in the present case, it would be an im- 
proper step. My success, perhaps as much 
accidental as merited, has brought an inunda- 
tion of nonseuse under the name of Scottish 
Eoetry. Subscription-bills for Scottish poems 
ave so dunned, and daily do dun ihe public, 
that the very name is in danger of contempt. 
For these reasons, if publishing any of Mr M. "s 
poems in a magazine, ice be at all prudent, in 
my opinion it certainly should not be a Scottish 
poem. The prohts of the labours of a man 
of genius, are, I hope, as honourable as sny 
profits whatever; and Mr Mylne's relations 
are most justly entitled to that honest har\est, 
which fate has denied himself to reap. But 
let the friends of Mr Mylne's fasie (among 
whom I crave the honour of ranking myself), 
always keep in eye his respectability as a man 
and as a poet, and take no me^isure that, be- 
fore the world knows any thing about him, 
would risk his name and character being 
classed with the fools of the times. 

I have, sir, some experience of pubUshing ; 
and the way in which I would proceed with 
IVlr Mylne's poems, is this : — I would publish, 
in two or three English and Scottish public 
papAs, any one of his English poems which 
should, by private judges, be thought the most 
excellent, and mention it at the same time, as 
one of the productions of a Lothian farmer, 
of respectable character, lately deceased,whose 
poems bis friends had it in idea to publish, 
■oon, by subscription, for the sake of his nu- 
merous family : — not in pity to that family, 
bat in Justice to what bis friends think the 
poetic merits of the deceased ; and to secure, 
in the most effectual manner, to those tender 
connexions, whose right it is, the pecuniary 
rewaf d of those merits. 



* Thege beautiful lines, we have reason to 
believe, are the production of the lady to whom 
thia letter is addressed. 



No. LXXIV. 
TO DK MOUHE. 

SIR, EUisttuui, 23a March, 1789. 
The gentleman who will deliver ^on this is a 
Mr Neilson, a worthy clergyman in my neigh- 
bourhood, and a very particular acquaintance 
of mine. As I hare troubled him with this 
packet, 1 must turn him over to your goodness, 
to recompense him for it in a way in which ha 
miich needs your assistance, and where you 
can etiectuallv '-— - 'm- »> •. 



V for Kr( 



1 his Gn 



yneeiisberrj, on some little business of a good 
deal of importance to bim, and he wishes for 
your instructions respecting the most eligible 
mode of travelling, &C. for him, when he has 
crossed the Channel. I should not have 
dared to take this liberty witl^yon, but that I 
am told, by those who have the honour of your 
personal acquaintance, that to be a poor honest 
' I latter of recommendation to 
and that to have it in your power to 
i.such a character, gives you much plea- 



llie enclosed ode is a compliment to the 

memory of the late Mrs , of . 

You probably knew her personally, an honour 
of which 1 cannot boast ; but 1 spent my early 
years in her neishbouxhood, and among her 
servants and tenants. I know that she was 
detested with the most heartfelt cordiality. 
However, in the particular part of her contluct 
which roused my poetic wrath, she was much 
less blameable. In January last, on mj road 
to /iyrsfaire, I had put up at Bailie Wigham'a 
in Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the 
place. The frost was keen, and the grim 
evening and howling wind were ushering in a 
night of snow and drift, ily horse and I were 
both much fatigued with the labours of the 
day, and just as my friend the Bailie and I 
were bidding defiance to the storm, over a 
smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral pageantry 

of the late great Mrs , and poor 1 am 

forced to brave all the horrors of the tempes- 
tuous night, and iade my horse, my young 
favourite horse, v\hom I had just christened 
Pegasus, twelve miles farther on, through the 
wildest muirs and hills of Ayrshire, to New 
Cumnock, the next inn. The powers of poesj 
and prose sink under me, when 1 would de- 
scribe what I telt. Suffice it to say, that when 
a good lire, at New Cumnock, had so far re- 
covered my frozen sinews, I sat down and 
wrote the inclosed ode. 

I was at Ldinburgh lately, and settled 
finally with Mr Creech ; and I must own, 
that, at last, he has been amicable and fair 



No. LXXV. 
TO MR HILL. 



EUhlavA, 2d April, 1789. 
I will make no excuses, my dear iiibliopoltat 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



(God forgive me for mnrdering language ! ) 
that I have sat down to write you oa this vile 
paper. 

It is economy, sir ; it is that cardinal 
prudence ; so I beg you will sit down, and 
either comDOse or borrow a panegyric. If 
you axe going to borrow, apply to 

to compose, or rather to compound, something 
very clever on my remarkable frugality ; that I 
■write to one of my most esteemed friends on 
this wretched paper, which was originally in- 
tended for the venal fist of some drunken ex- 
ciseman, to take dirty notes in a miserable 
Tault of an ale-cellar. 

O Frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand 
blessings — thou cook of fat beef and dainiy 

greens ! thou manufacturer of warm Shetland 

hose, and comfortable surtouts ! — thou old 
housewife, darning thy decayed stockings with 
thy ancient spectacles on thy aged nose ; — 
,ead me, hand me in thy clutching palsied fist, 
t-p those heights, and through those thickets, 
(litherto inaccessible* and impervious to my 
anxious weary feet: — not those Parnassian 
crags, bleak and barren, where the hungry 
■worshippers of fame are, breathless, clamber- 
ing, hanging between heaven and hell : but 
those glittering cliffs of Potosi, where the all- 
sufficient, all-powerful deity, Wealth, holds 
his immediate court of joys and pleasures ; 
where the snnny exposure of plenty, and the 
hot walls of profusiou, produce those blissful 
fruits of luxury, exotics in this world, and na- 
tives of paradise ! — Thou withered sybil, my 
sage conductress, usher me into the refulgent, 
adored presence ! — The power, splendid and 
potent as he now is, was once the pulmg nurs- 
ling of thy faithful care, and tender arms! 
CaU me thy son, thy cousin, thy kinsman, or 
favourite, and adjure the god, by the scenes of 
hii infant years, no longer to repulse me as a 
stranger, or an alien, but to favour me with 
his peculiar countenance and protection ! H 
daily bestows his greatest kindness on the un- 
deserving and the worthless — assure him, that 
I bring ample documents of meritorious de- 
merits] Pledge vourself for me, that, for the 
glorious cause 'of "Lucre, I will do any thing, 
be any thing — but (he horse-leech of private 
oppression, or the vulture of public robbery ! 

But to descend from heroics, .... 

I want a Shakspeare ; T want likewise an 
English dictionary — Johnson's, I suppose, is 
best. In these and all my prose commissions, 
the cheapest is always the best for me. There 

s a small debt of nonour that I owe -Mr Robert 
Cleghorn, in Saughton Mills, my worthy 
frienil, and your well-wisher. Please give 
him, and urge bim to take it, the first time i 
jou see- him, ten sLIliings worth of any thing 
jon have to sell, and place it to my account. 

The library scheme that 1 mentioned to you 
is already begun, unaer the ilirection of Cap- 
tain Riddel. There is another in emulation of 
it going on at Cioseburn, under the aiii-picesof 
Mr Monteith of Closebnrn, which will Is on 
a greater fccolc than ours. Capt. R. gave his 
Infant society t jrreat many of his old books, 

3lselhad written y'>u on that subject : but, 
one of these dayji, I-hali tijuble iou with a 



commission for " The Monkland Friendly 
Society ' ' — a copy of 2^he Spectaior, Mirror, 
and Lounger ; Man of Feeling, Man of the 
World, Guthrie's Geographical Grammar, with 
some religious pieces, will likely be our first 

'"hen I grow richer, I will write to you on 
gilt post, to make amends for this sheet. At 
present, every guinea has a five guinea errand 
with 

My dear sir. 

Your faithful, poor, but honest friend. 
R. B. 



No. LXXVL 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

EUieland, 2d April, 1 789 
I no sooner hit on any poetic plan or fancy, 
but I wish to send it to jou ; and if knowing 
and reading these give half the pleasure to you, 
that communicating them to you gives to me, 
I am satisfied. 

I have a poetic whim in my head, which I 
at present dedicate, or rather inscribe, to the 
Right Hon. C. J. Fox ; but how long that 
fancy may hold, I cannot say. A few of the 
first lines I have just rough-sketched, as fol- 



I sing : If these mortals, the critics, should 

I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle. 

But now for a patron, whose name and whose 

glory. 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thot 
Yet whosE 

lucky hits: 
"S^ ith knowledge so vast, and with judgme 

so strong. 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far 

potent, and fancies so 



I With 

j bright 



Non 



Ight ; 



th the half of ' 



r went quite 



Good L d. what is man ! for as simple 

he looks 
Do hut try to develope his hooks and his 

With his depths and bis shallows, bis good 

and his evil. 
All in all he's a problem most pazsle tba 

devil. 



BURNS LETIERS. 



On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely 

labours, 
ITiat like the old Hebrew -walking-switch, 

eats up its neighbours ; 
Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would 

you know him ? 
Pull the string, ruling passion, the picture 

will show him. 
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a sys- 

One trifl ng particular, truth, should have 



Some sort all our qualities each to its 
tribe. 
And think human nature they truly describe ; 
Have you fouad this, or t'other ? there s more 

As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll 
find. 



Man. 
No two virtues, -whatever relation they claim. 
Nor even two different shades of the same. 
Though like as was ever twin brother to bro- 
ther, 
Possess! ag the one shall implj you've the 
other. 

On the 20 th current I hope to have the ho- 
nour of assuring you, in person, how sincerely 
I am, ... 



TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

MY DEAR SIR, Ellisland, 4lh May, 1789. 
Your duly free favour of the 26th April I 
received two days ago : I will not say I perus- 
ed it with pleasure ; that is the cold com- 
pliment of ceremony ; I perused it, sir, with 
delicious satisfaction. — In short, it is such a 
letter, that not you, nor your friend, but the 
legislature, by express proviso in their postage 
laws, should frank. A letter informed with 
the soul of friendship is such an honour to 
human nature, that they should order it free 
ingress and egress to and from their bags and 
mails, as an encouragement and mark of dis- 
tinction to supereuiiiient virtue. 

I have just put the last hand to a little poem 
which I think will be something to your taste. 
One morning lately as I was out pretty early 
in the fields sowing some grass seeds, 1 heard 
the burst of a shot from a neighbouring plan- 
tation, and presently a poor little wounded 
hare came crippling by me. You will guess 
my indignation at the inhuman fellow who 
could shoot a hare at this season, when they 
all of them have young ones. Indeed there 
is something in that business of destroying, 
for our sport, individuals in the animal crea- 
tion that do not injure us materially, which 
1 could never reconcile to my ideas of vir- 



Inhuraan man ! curse on thy barb'rons art. 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye, 
JWay never pity soothe thee with a sigh. 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart. 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field. 
The bitter little that of life remains ; 
No more the thickening brakes or verdant 
plains. 

To thee a home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted formj 
That wonted form, alas! thy dying bed. 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thj 
head. 

The cold earth with thy blood-stained bosom 



Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its woe ; 
The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side ; 
Ah ! helpless nurslings, who will now pro- 

That life a mother only can bestow ? 

Oft as by winding Nith, I musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn. 

And curse the ruthless wretch, and mourn thy 
hapless fate. 

Let me know how you like my poem. I 
am doubtful whether it would not be an im- 
provement to keep out the last stanza but one 
altogether. 

C is a glorious production of the au- 
thor of man. You, he, and the noble Colonel 



I have a good mind to make verses on you 
all, to the tune of ' ' three good fellows ayoiU the 
gleiu" 



No. LXXTIIL 



criticism. The following is that gentle- 
man's reply.] 

FROM DR GREGORY. 

DEAR SIR. Edinbvrgh, 2d June, 1789. 
take the first leisure hour I could command, 
to thank you for your letter, and the copy of 
:s inclosed in it. As there is real poetic 
t, I mean both fancy, and tenderness, and 
happy expressions, in them, I think they 
well deserve that you should revise them care- 
fully and polish them to the utmost. This I 
am sure you can do if you please.ifor you have 
great command both' of expression and of 
rhymes : and you may judge from the two last 
pieces ot Mrs Hunter's poetry, that I gave you, 
how maet> oorrectjess and high polish enhance 
the value at such compositious» As joh dt> 



1B2 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



■ire it, I shall, with preat fveedoui, give ^ou 
mj most rigorcus criticisms on your verses. I 
wish you would give me anottier edition of 
tbein« much amenJed, aiid I will send it lo 
Mn Honter, who, I am sure, will have much 
pleasure in reading it. Pray, give me like- 
wise for myself, and her too, a copy (as much 
amended as you please) of the Water Fowl on 
Loch Tura. 

The Woutided Hare is a pretty good sub- 
ject ; but the measure, or stanza, yon have 
chosen for it is not a good one ; it does not 
fiotc well ; and the rhyme of the fourth line is 
almost lost by its distance from the tirst ; and 
the two interposed, close rhymes. If I were 
yon, I would put it iiiio a diHereut stanza 
yet. 

Stoma 1. — The execrations in the first two 
lines are strong or coarse ; but they may 
pass. •• Wurder-aiming, " is a bad compound 
epithet, and not very intelligihle. *' blood- 
Btained, " in stanza iii. line 4, has the same 
fault ; Bleeding bosom is intinitely better. Vou 
have accustomed yourself to sucli epithets, ai.d 
have no notion how stili' and quaint they ap- 
pear to othera, and how incongruous with 
poetic fancy, and tender sentiments. Suppose 
Pope had vn-itten, «•^Vhy that blood-stsiued 
bosom gored, " how would you have likto it ? 
Form is neither a poetic, oor a dignified, nor a 
plain common wurd: it is a mere sportsman's 
■word ; unsuitable to pathetic or serious poetrj-. 

•' Mangled" is a coarse word. •' Innocent, " 
In this sense, is a nursery word ; but both may 
pass. 

Stanza 4. — •• Who will now provide that 
life a mother only can bestow, " will not do at 
all J it is not grammar — it is not intelligible. 
Do you mean *' provide for that life which the 
mother hud bestowed and used to provide 
for?" 

There was a ridiculous slip of the pen, 
*• Feeling" (I suppose; for " Fellow, " in the 
title of your copy of verses ; but even fellow 
■would be wrong: it is but a colloquial and 
vulgar word, unsuitable to your sentiments. 
•• Shot" is improper too. On seeing a ptnson 
(or a sportsman) wound a hares it is needless 
to add with what weapon ; but if you thiulc 
Otherwise, you should say, with afoicling piece. 
^ Let me see you when you come to town, and 
J will show jou Bome more of Mrs Hunter's 
poems. '^ 



No. LXXIX. 
TO MR M'AUI.EY, OF DUMBARTON. 

DEAR SIR, ithjime, 1789. 

Though I am not without my fears respecting 
my fate at that grand, universal inquest of right 
and wrong, commonly called The La»t Day, 
yet I trust there is one sin, which that arch- 
vagabond, Satan, who, 1 understand, is to be 
king's evidence, cannot throw in my teeth — I 
mean ingratitude. There is Q certain pretty 
large quantum of kindness for ^bich I remain, 
and, from inability, 1 tear, musi remain your 
debtor ; but though unable to repay the debt, 1 
assure you, sir, I shall ever warmly remember 
the obligation. It gives me the sincerest 
pleasure to hear by my old acquaintance, Mr 
Kennedy, that you axe, in immoital Allan's 
language, " Hale and weei, and living ;" and 
that your charming family are well, and pro- 
mising to be an amiable and respectable addi- 
tion to the company of performers, whom the 
Great Slanager of the Drama of Man is bring- 
ing into action for the succeeding age. 

With respect to my welfare, a subject ia 
which you once warmly and effectively inter- 
ested jourseif, I am here in my old way, hold-^ 
ing my plough, marking the growth of my 
corn, or the health of mj dairy ; and at tiaies 
sauntering by the delightful windings of th/« 
Nith, on the margin of which I have built my 
humble domicile, praying for seasonable wea- 
ther, or holding an rntrigue with the Muses; 
the only gipseys with whom I have now any 
intercourse. As I am entered inio the holy 
state of matrimony, I trust my face is tuvutd 
completely Zion-ward ; and as it is a rule with 
all honest fei.ows, to repeat no grievances, I 
hope that the little poetic licences of former 
days, will of course fall uudej (he oblivious in- 
fluence of some good-natured statute uf celestial 
proscription. In my family devotion, which, 
like a good presbyterian, I occasionally give to 
my household foiks, I am extremely fond of 
the psalm, ' • Let not the errors of my youth, " 
iiC and that other, " Lo, children aw God's 
heritage, ' ' kc in which last Mrs liurns, who, 
by the bje, has a glorious •' wood-note wild" 
at either old song or psalmody, joins me with 
the pathos of Handel's MessiaJla 



* It must be admitted, that this criticism is 
not more distinguished by its good sense, than 
by Its freedom from ceremony. It is impossi- 
ble not to smile at the manner in which the 
poet may be supposed to have received it. In 
fact it appears, as the sailors say, to hnve 
thrown him quite a-hack. In a letter which he 

wrote soon after, he says, •' Dr G is a 

good man, but he crucifies ma. " — And again, { 

" I believe in the iron justice of Dr G j 

but like the devils, I believe and tremble. " 
However, he profited by these criticisms, as the 
reader will find, by comparing this first edition 
ef the poem, with that published afterwards. 



No. LXXX. 
TO MRS DUNLOP. 

EUidand, 21rf June, 1789. 

DEAR MADAM, 
Will JOU take the effasions, the miserable ef- 
fusions of low spirits, just as they flow fn.m 
their bitter spring. I know not of any parti- 
cular cause for this worst of all my foes beset- 
ting me, but for sometime my soul has been 
beclouded with a thickening atmosphere of 
evil imagiuations and gloomy presages. 

Monday Evening, 

I have Just beard give a sermon. 

He is a man faniuus for his benevolence, and I 
; revere him ; but from such ideas of my Crea- 
i (or, good Lord deliver me I Religion, nij 



BURNS— LETTERS. 



123 



hosoared fHendt b snrely a simple business, 
ks it fqu&lly coacerui tUe ignorant and the 
lewned, ?ha poor and the rich. That there i« 
an incouiprwienaibly great Being, to 'whom 
I owe my existence, and that he mast be inti- 
mately acquainted wilh the operations and 
prosress of the internal machinery, and conse- 
quent outward deportment of this creature 
which he has made ; these are, I think, self- 
evident propositions. That there is a real and 
eternal distinction between virtue and vice, and 
consequently that I am an accountable creature ; 
that trom tbe seeming nature of the human 
mind, as well as from the evident imperfection. 
Day, positive injustice, in theadmiiublration of 
afi'airs, both in the natural and moral worlds, 
there must be a retributive scene of existence 
beyond the grave ; must, I thiiiic, be allowed by 
every one who will give himself a moment's re- 
tiection. I will go fartlier, and affirm, that 
from the sublimity, excellence, and purity of 
his doctrine and precepts, unparalleled by 
til the aggregated wisdoui and learning of 
many preceumg ages, though, to ap-pearance, 
he himself was the obscurest and most ihittr- 
ate of our ipecies : therefore, Jestu Ciirist was 
from God. 

Whatever mitigate* the woes, or increases 
the happiness of others, this is my criterion of 
goodness; and whatever injures society at 
large, or any individual iu it, this is my mea- 
sure of iniquity. 

What think yoD, madam, of my creed ? I 
trust that 1 have said notlimg that will lesseu 
me in the eye of one, vthose good opinion I 
value almost next to the approbation cf my own 
mind. 



FROM DR MOORE. 

CW<rrd SlreeU lOiA June, 1789. 

SEAR SIR, 
I thank )ou for the different communication* 
ou have made me of your occasional produc- 
ous in manuscript, all of which have merit, 
end some ot them merit of a different kind 
from what appears in the poems you have pub- 
lished. You ought carefully to preserve all 
vour occasional productions, to correct and im- 
prove them at your leisure* and when you can 
select as many of these as will make a volume, 
publish it either at Edinburgh or London, by 
subscription: On such an occasion, it may be 
in my power, as it is very mucli in my inclina- 
tion, to be of service to you- 

If I were to offer an opinion, it would be, 
that in ^our future productions you should aban- 
don the Scottish stansa and dialect, and adopt 
the measiue and language of modern English 
poetry. 

The stanza which yoa nse in imitation of 
Chriti\ Kirk on the Green, with the tiresome 
repetition of •• that day," is fatiguing to Eng- 
lish ears, and I should think not very agreeable 
lo Scottish. 

All the fine satire and humour of your Holy 
Fair is lost on the English ; yet, without more 
trouble to yourself, you could have conveyed 
the whole to them. The same is true of some 
of ^our other poema. lo ^our Epistle to J. 



S , the stanzas from that beginning with 

this line, " This life, so far's I nnoerstand, "^ 
to that which ends with, •• Short while jt 
grieves, " are easy, flowing, gaily philosophi. 
cal. and of Horatian elegance — the language is 
English, with a/etc Scottish words, and boms< 
of those so harmonious, as to add to the beauty i 
for what poet would not prefer gloaming to 
twilighi. 

I imagine, that by carefully keeping, and oc- 
casionally polishing and correcting those verses, 
which the uiuse dictates, you will, within a 
year or two, have another volume as large as 
the first, ready for the press ; and this, without 
diverting you from every proper attention to the 
study and practice of Husbandry, in which I 
understand you are very learned, and which 1 
fancy you will choose to adhere to as a wife, 
while poetry amuses jou from lime to time as a 
mistress. The former, like a prudSut wife, 
must not show ill humour, although you retain 
a sneaking kindness lo this agreeable gipsey, 
and pay her occasional visits, which in no 
manner alienates your heart from your lawful 
spouse, but tends on the contrary to promote 
her interest. 

I desired Mr Cadell to write to Mr Creech to 
send you a copy of Zeluco. This performance 
has had great success here, but I shall be glad 
to hare your opinion of it, because I know yoa 
are above saying what you do not think. 

I beg you will uffer my best wishes to my 
very good friend, Mrs Hamilton, who 1 under- 
stand is your neighbour. If she is as happy as 
I wish her, she is happy enough. Make my 
compliments also to Mrs Burns, and believe ma 
to be, with sincere esteem. 

Dear Sir, yours, &c 



FROM MISS J. L- 



SIE, Lovdon-House, \2thJuly, 1789* 

Though I have not the happiness of being pe*- 
sonally acquainted with you, yet amongst the 
number of those who have read and admirec' 
your publications, may I be permitted to trou 
hie you with this. You must know, sir, I am 
somewhat in love with the Muses, though L 
cannot boast of any favours they have deigned 
to confer upon me as yet ; my si'.uation in life 
has. been very much against me as to that. 1 
have spent some years in and about Eccle- 
fechan (where my parents reside), in the station 
of a servant, and am now come to Loudon- 

House, at present possessed by Mrs H } 

she is daughter to 31rs Dunlop of Dunlop, 
whom I understand you are particularly ac- 
quainted with. As I had the pleasure of pi 



dignified si 

a few verses of address to you, which 1 did not 
then think of ever presenting t but as fortune 
seems to have favoured me in this, by bringing 
me into a family by whom you are well known 
and much esteemed, and where perhaps 1 may 
have an opportunity of seeing you i I shall, ia 
hopes of ) our future friendship, take the liberlj 
to transcribe them. 



DUMOND CABINET LIBRAEY. 



Fair fa the honest rustic swain. 
The priile o' a' our Scottish plain ; 
Thou gi'es us joy to hear thy strain. 
And notes sae sweet : 



Loved Thalia, that delightfu' mnse, 
Seem'd lang shut up as a recluse ; 
To all she did her aid refuse. 

Since Allan 's day : 
Till Burns arose, then did she choose 

To grace his lay. 

To hear thy sangr all ranks desire, 
Sae weel you strike the dormant lyre ; 
Apollo With poetic fire 

'1 hy breast does warm ; 
And critics silently admire 

Thy art to charm. 

C»sar and Luath wee! can speak, 
1 is. p!'\ e'er iheir gabs should sleek, 
liut into huui..ii nature keek, 

Ai.u kuots unravel : 
Tc Lear their lec:ure=^ once a-week, 

Nice miiei I'd traveL 

Thy dedication to G. H. 

An unco bonnie hamespun speech, 

Wi' winsome glee the heart can teach 

A better lesson. 
Than serrile bards, who fawn and fleech 

Like beggar's messiu. 

When slighted love becomes your theme. 
And women's faithless tows jou blame; 
>Vith so much pathos you exclaim. 

In your lament ; 
But glanced by the most frigid dame. 



She would relent 
' skill ; 



The daisy too ye sing 

And weel ye praise the whi<ky gill : 

In vain I blunt my feckless quili. 

Your fame to raise ; 
While echo sounds from ilka hill. 

To Burns 's praise. 

Did Addison or Pope but hear. 

Or Sam, that critic most severe, 

A pioughboy sing with throat s^e clear 



And curse v 



ur page. 
e faint. 



Sure Milton 's eloqi 
The beauties of yci 
JtJy rude unpolish'd strokes but taint 

Their brilliancy ; 
Th ' attempt would doubtless vex a saint. 

And weel may me. 

The task 111 drop with heart sincere. 
To heaven present my humble prayer. 
That all the blessings mortals share. 

May be by turns. 
Dispensed by an indulgent care 

To Robert Burns. 

Sir, I hope yon wall pardon my boldness in 
this ; my band' trembles while I write to yon, 
eocscious of my unwortbiness of what I would 
Biost earnestly solicit, vi«. joor favour and 



friendship : yet hoping you will show yourself 
possessed of as icDch generosity and good- 



measure, 
myself. 



re es wiU prevent your exposing what 
justly Be found liable to censure in tiiia]^ 
' shall take the liberty to subscribdH j 



Your most obedient humble servant, 

P. S. — If yon would condescend to honour 
me with a few lines from your hand, I woula 
take it as a particular favour, and direct to me 
at Loudon- Uoiu^e near Gmslock, 



Nc. LXXXIIL 

FROM XR . 

London, blh August, 1 789. 

MY DEAR SIR, 
Excuse me when I say, that the uncommon 
abilities which you possess, must render your 
correspondence very acceptable to any one. I 
can assure you, I am particularly proud of your 
partiality, and shall endeavour, by every "me- 
thod in my power, to merit a 
your politeness. 






I cannot express my nappiness sufficiently at 
e instance of your attachment to my late in- 
estimable friend. Bob Fergusson, who was par- 
ticularly intimate with myself and relations.* 
AA'hlle I recollect with pleasure his extraordi- 
nary talents and many amiable qualities, it 
aflords me the greatest consolation, that I am 
honoured with the correspondence of his suc- 
cessor in national simplicity and genius. That 
Mr Burns has refined in the art of poetry, must 
readily be admitted ; but notwithstanding manj 
favourable representations, I am yet to leara 
that he inherits his convivial powers. 

There was such a richness of conversation, 
such a plenitude of fancy and afraction in 
him, that when I call the happy period of our 
intercourse to my memory, 1 feel myself in a 
state of delirium. I was then younger than 
him by eight cr ten years ; but his manner was 
so felicitous, that he enraptured every person 
around him, and infused inso the hearts of the 
young and old, the spirit and animation which 
operated on his own mind. 

1 am, dear Sir, yours, &c. 



Ko. LXXXIV. 
TO MR , 

IX ANSVrSH, TO THB FOEEGOIKG- 
M\ DEAR SIR, 

The hurry of a farmer in this particular sea. 



- The erection of a monument to him. 



BURNS LETTEKS. 



i25 



Bon, and tbs indolence of a poet at all 
and ueasons, will, 1 hope, plead my excuse for 
neglecting so long to answer jour obliging let- 
ter of the fifth ot August. 

That you have done well in quitting your 
laborious concern in . . . . I do not 
doubt ; the weighty reasons you mention were, 
I hope, very, and deservedly indeed, weighty 
»nes, and your health is a matter of the last 
Wnportance ; but whether the remaining pro- 
prietors of the paper have also done well, is 
what I much doubt. 'I'he . . . ., so far 
as I was a reader, exhibited such a brilliancy 
of point, such an elegance of paragraph, and 
BUch a variety of intelligence, that I can hard- 
ly conceive it possible to continue a daily paper 
in the same degree of excellence ; but if there 
was a man who had abilities equal to the 
task, that man's assistance the proprietors 
kave lost. 

When I received your letter 1 was transcrib- 
ing for , my letter to the iMagistrates 

of the Canorgate, Edinburgh, begging their 
permission to place a toir.b-stone over poor 
Fergnsson, and their edict in consequence of 
my petition ; but now I shall send them to 

Poor Fergusson '. If 

there be a life beyond the grave, which I trust 
there is ; and if there be a good God presi 
over all nature, which I am sure there is ; thou 
art now enjoying existence in a glorious world, 
where worth ot the heart alone is distinction 
in the man ; where riches, deprived of all their 
pleasure-purchasing powers, return to their 
native sordid matter: where titles and honours 
are the disregarded reveries of an idle dream : 
and where that heavy virtue, which is the ne- 
gative consequence of steady dulness, and 
those thoughtless, though often destructive 
follies, which are the unavoidable aberrations 
of frail human nature, will be thrown into 
equal oblivion as if they had never been ! 

Adieu, my dear Sir : so soon as your present 
views and schemes are concentred in an aim, 
1 shall be glad to hear from you : as your 
— elfare and happiness is by no means a subject 



iudilt'erent t< 



Yours, iic. 



No. LXXXV. 
TO MRS DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 6th September, 1789. 

DEAR MADAM, 
I have mentioned in my last, ray appointment 
to the excise, and the 'birth of little Irank ; 
who, by the bye, I trust will be no discredit 
to the honourable name of Wallace, as he has 
a tine manly countenance, and a figure that 
might do credit to a little fellow two raonlhs 
older; and likewise an excellent good temper, 
though when he pleases he has a pipe, only not 
quite so loud as the horn that his immortal 
namesake blew as a signal to take out the pin 
of Stirling bridge. 

I had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, 
end part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs J. 
ij- : a very ingenious, but modest com- 



position. I should have written her as she re- 
quested, but for the hurry of this new business. 
) have heard of her and her compositions ia 
this country : and I am happy to add, always 
to the honour of her character. Ihe fact is, 
I know not well how to write to her ; I should 
sit down to a sheet of paper that I knew not 
how to stain. I am no daub at fine drawn 
letter-writing ; and except when prompted by 
friendship or gratitude, or, which happens ex- 
tremely rarely, inspired by the AJase(I know 
not her name) that presides over epistolary 
writing, 1 sit down, when necessitated to 
write, as I would sit down to beat hemp. 

Some parts of your letter of the 20th August, 
struck me with melancholy concern lor the 
state of your mind at present. 

Would I could write you a letter of comfort I 
I would sit down to it with as much pleasure, 
as I would to write an epic poem of my own 
composition, that should equal the Iliad, lle- 
ligion, my dear friend, is the true comfort 1 
A strong persuasion in a future state of exis- 
tence ; a proposition so obviously probable, 
that, setting revelation aside, every nation and 
people, so far as in\estigation has reached, for 
at least near four thousand years, have, in some 
mode or other, lirnily believed it. In vain 
would we reason and pretend to doubt. I 
have m)selt done so to a very daring pitch ; 
but when 1 rellected, that 1 was opposing the 
most ardent wishes, and the most darling hopes 
of good men, and tlyiiig in the face of all hu- 
man belief, in all ages, 1 was shocked at my 
own conduct. 

I know not whether I Lave ever sent you 

them ; but it is one of my favourite quoialions, 
which 1 keep constantly by uie in luy progress 
through life, in the language of the luok ot 
Job, 

" Against the day of battle and of war, " — 

spoken of religion. 

" 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morn- 
ing brisht, 

'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night. 

When wealth forsakes us, and when friends 
are few : 

When friends are faithless, or when foes pur- 

'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the 

Disarms affliction, or repels his dart : 
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise. 
Bids sjiiiiing conscience spread her cloudless 
skies. " 

I have been very busy with Zehico. The 
Doctor is so ubliging as to rei^uest iiij opinion 
of it ; and i have been rnoUuig in niv mind 
some kind of criticisms on novel writing, but 
It is a depth beyond iiij research. 1 shall 
however digest my thoughts on tire subject aa 
well as I can. Zcluco is a most sterling per- 
formance. 

Farewell : A Dieu, k Ion Dieu, je vote 
commende I 



DL\MOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



No. LXXXVI. 

iTROM 1)R BLACRLOCK. 

Edinburgh, 2ith Augitst, 1789. 
Pear Barns, tboa brother of my heart. 
Both for thj virtues and thy an : 
If art it may be call'd in thee. 
Which nature's bouutj. larjre and free, 
Svith pleasure on thy breast difiuses. 
And warms thy •oul with all the Muses. 
Whether to laugh with easy f;rnce. 
Thy numbers move the sage's faoe. 
Or bid the softer passions rise. 
And ruthless souls with grief surprise, 
'Tig Nature's voice distinctly felt. 
Through thee her organ, thus to melt. 

Most anxiously I wish to know. 
With thee of late how niatiers go ; 
How keeps thy much-Kned ,!eaii ht-r health 
What promises thy farm of wt-alth f 
Whether the Muse' persists to srr.ile. 
And all thy anxious cures l.eguile ? 
Whether bright fancy keeps alive f 
Aud how thy darling jntauis thrive t 

For me, with grief and sickness spent, 
Since 1 my journey homeward bent. 
Spirits depress 'd no more 1 mourn. 
But vigour, life, and healih return. 
No more to glooni_\ fhou<jlits a prey, 
I sleep all night, a'ntl live all day ; 
By turns ray hook and friend enjoy. 
And thus my circling hours employ ; 
Happy while jet these hours remain. 
If Burns could join the cheerful train. 
With wonted zeal, sincere and fervent. 
Salute oace more bis humble servant, 

THO. BLACRLOCK. 



No. LXXXVII. 

TO 1)R BLACRLOCR. 

EUidand, 21st October, 1789. 
Wow, but your .etter made me vauntie! 
Anu are ye li tie, and weel, and cantie i 
1 keau'd it siill, your wee bit jauntie 

Wad bring ye tot 

Lord sendyoD aye as weel's i want ye. 

And then ye '11 do. 

The ni-thief Maw the Heron south ! 
Aiid never drink be near his drouth! 
He tauld mysel by word o' mouth. 

He'd tak my letter; 
I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth, 

And bade nae better. 

But aiblins honest Masler Heron, 
Udil at the time some dainty fair one, 
To ware his iheologiu care on. 

And holy study ; 



But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
1 in turn'd a ganger — Peace be here I 
Parnassian queens, I fear. I fear, 

Ye'llnowdisdamme 
And then my fifty pounds a-year 

Will Utile gain me. 

Ye glaiket, gieesome, dainty damies, 
Wha by Castalia's wimplin streumies, 
Lowp, sing;, and lave your pretty limbies, 



I tiae a wife ana iwa wee laddies. 

They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies i 

Ye ken yoursel my heart right proud is, 

I needna vaunt. 
But I'll send besoms — thraw saugh woodies. 

Before they want. 

Lord heip roe through this warid o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air 1 
Not but 1 hae a richer share 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better f "re. 

And a' men brithersl 

Come, Firm Resolve, tak thou the Tan, 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in roan ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair t 
WTia does the utmost that he can. 

Will whylesdomair. 



But to concluoe my silly rhyme, 
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' 
To make a happy fireside clime 



Of human life. 

My compTlroents to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky ; — 
I wat she is a daintie chuckle. 

As e 'er tread clay ! 
And gratefully my gude auld cockie, 

I'm yours for aye. 
ROBERT BURNS. 



No. LXXXTIIL 
TO R, GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY. 



SIR, 9th December, \7S9. 

1 have a good whilp bad a wish to trouble you 
.vilh a letter, and aad certainly done it long ere 
low— but for a humiliating something that 
hrows cold water on the resolution, as if one 
hould say, '• You have found Mr Graham a 
'ery powerful and kind friend indeed, and that 



Mr Heron, author of the History of Scot- 
land, lately published ; and among Tarioui 
works, of a respectable life of our poet 



Bl'RXS.— LETTERS, 



Interest he is so kindly takins in your con- 
cerns, you ought by f -••rj thing m your power 
to keep alive' aud chirigh. " Now though, 
since God has thought proper to make one 
powerful and another helpless, the connexion 
of obliger aud obliged is all fair ; and though 
my being under your patronage is to mehiglily 
honourable, yet, sir, allow me to flatter msself, 
that, as a poet aud an honest man, you first 
Interested yourself in my welfare, and princi- 
pally as such still, you permit me to approach 
yoo. 

I have found the excise business go on a 
great deal smoother with me than I expected ; 
owing a good deal to the generous friendship 
of Mr Mitchell, my collector, aud the kind 
assistance of Mr Findlater, my supervisor. 1 
dare to be honest, end I fear no labour. Nor 
do I find my hurried life greatly inimical to 
«uy correspondence with the Muses. Their 
visits to me, indeed, and 1 believe to most of 
their acquaintance, like the visits of good 
aiigels, are short and far between ; but I meet 
them now and then as 1 jog through the hills 
of N'ithsdale, just as 1 iiBed to ao on the banks 
of Ayr. 1 take the liber! ♦ to inclose you a 
few bagatelles, all of them the productions of 
my leisure thoughts in my excise rides. 

If you know or have ever seen Captain 

Grose, the anti(|uarian, you will enter into any 

, humour that is in the verses on him. Perhaps 

I you have seen them before, as I sent tliem to 

I a London Newspaper. Though 1 dare say 

f >ou have none of the solemn-league-and-cove- 

■lai.t tire, which shone so conspicuous in Lord 

George Gordon, and the Kilmarnock weavers, 

vet i think you must ha re heard of l)r M'Gill, 

one of the clergymen of Ayr. aud his heretical 

book. God help him, poor man I Though he 

i> one of the worthiest, as well as one of the 

ablest of the whole priesthood of the Kirk of 

S.:otland, in every sense of that ambiguous 

t.nn, yet the poor Doctor and his numerous 

family are in imminent danger of being thrown 

out to the mercy of the winter-winds. The 

inclosed ballad on that business is, 1 confess, 

! too local, but I laughed myself at gome con- 

i eeits in it, though I am convinced in my con- 

•cifiice, that there are a good many heavy 

'i he election ballad, as yon will see, alludes 

. to ilie present canvass in our string of 

boroushs. I do not believe there will be 

. such a hard run match in the whole general 

f eiectiou. * 

I am too little a man to have any political 
•ttaqhineiits: I am deeply indebted to, and 
have fhi- warmest veneration for, individuals 
of both parlies: but a man who has it in his 
power to be the father of a country, and who 

-^— is a character that one cannot 

■peak of with patience. 

Sir J. J. does *<what man can do," but 
yet I doubt his fate. 



* This allndes to the contest for the bo- 
Kngb of Dumfries, between the Duke of 
Que«!n-.h<Try'B interest and that of Sir James 
Jttknstoue. 



No. LXXXIX. 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

EUidand, \3th December, 1789. 
Many thanks, dear madam, for your sheetful 
of rhymes Though at present I am below 
the veriest prose, yet from you every thing, 
pleases. I am groaning under the miseries of 
a dis^^ased nervous system ; a system, the state 
of which is most conaucive to our happiness — 
or the most productive of our misery. For 
now near three weeks I have been so ill with 
a nervous head-ache, that I have beea obliged 
to give up, for a time, my excise books, being 
scarce able to lift my head, much less to ride 
onoe a-week over ten muir parishes. 'What is 
M;in ! lo-day, in the luxuriance of health, 
exulting in the enjoyment of existence; in a 
few days, perhaps in a few hours, loaded 
with conscious painful being, counting the 
tardy pace of the lingering moments by the 
epercussious of anguish, and refusing or de- 
led a comforter. Day follows night, and 
light comes after day, only to curse him with 
ife which gives him no pleasure; aud yet the 
wful, dark termination of that life, is a some- 
hing at which he recoils* 

«« Tell us, ye dead ; will noue of yon in pity 

Di=K;lose the secret 

What 'tis you are, and tee must ihorily be I 

A little time will make us learn 'd as you are. 

Can it be possible, that when I resign this 
frail, feverish being, I shall still lind myself in 
lonscious existence! When the last gasp of 
igony has announced that I am no more to 
hose that knew me, and the few who loved 
ne: when the cold, stiffened, unconscious, 
ghastly corse is resigned into the earth, to be 
the prey of uiisigbtly reptiles, and to become 

time a trodden clod, shall I yet be warm in 

e, seeing and seen, enjoying and enjoyed ? 

s venerable sages, and holy flamens, is there 
probability in your conjectures, truth in your 
stories of another world beyond death: or are 
they all alike, baseless visions, and fabricates 
fables ? If there is another life, it musl be 
only for the just, the benevolent, the amiable, 
and the humane ; what a flattering idea, then, 

the world to come I Would to God I as 
lirmly believed it, as I ardently -wish it ! There 
I sliould meet an aged parent, now at rest 
from the many buffettings of an evil world, 
against which he so long and bo bravely strug- 
gled. There should 1 meet the friend, the 
disinterested friend of my early life ; the maa 
who rejoiced to see me, because he loved me 

and could serve me. Muir I thy weaknesses 

were the abberrations of human nature, but 
thy heart glowed with every thing generous, 
manly, and noble ; and if ever emanation from 
the All-good Being animated a human form, it 
was thine !_ There should I with speechless 
agony of rapture, again recognise my lost, my 
ever dear Mary I whote bo>om was frauglu 
with troth, houonr. c<.n%iiincy. and lovm 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Seest thou thj lover lowlj laid 
Hear 'st thou thegroaas tliat reod his breast ? 

Jesus Christ, thou e 
I trust thou art no im , 
velation of blissful scenes of existeace be\ond 
death and the grave, is not one of the 
imposicioos which ti 
palmed on credub 



endearing, 
thos 



after time h; 
ikind. I trust that in 
shall all the families of the earth be 
sssed, " by being jet connected together in a 
tter world, where every tie that bound heart 
heart, in this ttate of existence, shall be, 
present couceplions, more 

good deal inclined to think with 
who maintain that what are called ner- 
vous adectious are in fact diseases of the 
miud. I cannot reason, I cannot think ; and 
but to you I would not venture to write any 
thing above an order to a cobbler. You have 
felt too much of the ills of life not to sympa- 
thize with a diseased wretch, who is impaired 
in more than half of any faculties he possessed. 
Your goodness will excuse this distracted 
scrawl, which the writer dare scarcely read, 
and wliich he would throw into the lire, v\ere 
he able to write any thing better, or indeed any 
thing at all. 

Kuniour told me something of a son of 
jours who has returned from the East or 
West Indies. If you have gotten news of 
James or Anthony, it was cruel iu you not to 
let me know ; as I promise you, on 'the since- 
rity of a man, who is weary oi one world and 
anxious about another, that scarce any thing 
could give me so much pleasure as to hear of 
any good thing befalling ray honoured friend. 

If you have a minute's leisure, take up vi 
pea in pity to le pauvre miserable 



walks of the peosa&t and the artisao, a matter 
worthy of his allention. 

Mr Riddel got a number of his own tenants, 
and farming neighbours, to form themselves 
into a society for the purpose of having a library 
among themselves. They entered into a legal 
engagement to abide by it for three years ; 
with a saving clause or two, in case of removal 
to a distance, or of death. Each member, at 
his entry, paid five shillings, and at each of 
their meetings, which were held every fourth 
Saturday, sixpence more. >Viih their entry, 
money, and the credit which they took on the 
faith of their future funds, they laid in a tole- 
rable stock of books at the commencement. 
What authors they were to purchase, was 
always decided by the majority. At every 
meeting, ali the books, under certain tines and 
forfeitures, by way of penalty, were to be pro- 
ciuced ; and the members had their choice ol 
the volumes in rotation. He whose name 
stood, ior that night, iirst on the list, had his 
choice of what vojume he pleated in the whole 
collection ; the second had his cboice after the 
tirst ; tUe third alter the second, and so on to 
the last. At next uieetii g, he who had been 
tirsi ou the list at the preceding meeting, was 






d been 



IS brst ; 



through thi 
the expiration of the eugageinei 
were sold by auction, but only 
members themselves : and eacii 
share of the common stock, in 
books, as he chose to be a purchastr ur not. 

At the breaking up ot this liiile society, 
which was formed under Mr Uiddel's pation- 
age, what with beuefaelions of books trom 
him, and what with their t 
had collected together upw 
and hfty volumes. It will 
that a good deal of trash 
.^moiig the books, howe^ 
librar^>, were B.air's i^crnw? 
tor_y of HcoliaJid, Hume '« Uhtory of ihe :ituarls, 
the isptctator, Idltr, Adventur 



the books 
uo.ig Ihe 
I had his 



wn purchases they 
irus of one hundred 
easily be guessed, 
vfouid be ijought. 
er, of this lutle 
, Roberts 



TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 



The following circumstance has, I believe, 
been omitted in the statistical account, trans- 
mitted to you, of the parish of Uuuscore, in 
Nithsdale. I beg leave to send it to >ou, be- 
cause it is new and may be useful. How far 
it is deserving of a place in your patriotic pub- 
lication, you are the best judge. 

To store the minds of the lower classes 
with Useful knowledge, is certainly of very 
great importance, both to them as individuals, 
and to society at large. Giving them a turn 
for reading and retiection, is giving them a 
source of innocent and laudable amusement; 
and besides raises them to a more dignited 
degree in the scale of rationality. Impressed 
with this idea, a gentleman in this parish, 
Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, set on foot 
a species of circulating library, on a plan so 
simple as to be practicable in any corner of the 
country ; and so useful, as to deserve the notice 
of every country gentleman, who thinks the 
improvement of that part of his own species, 
whoiB chance has throwu icto the humble 



Lotmger, Observer, Man of Feeling, Manoftht^ 
World, Chrysal, Don Quixote, Joseph An- 
drews, ^-c. A peasant who can read and enjoy 
such hooks, is certainly a much superior being 
to his neighbour, who perhaps stalks beside 
tiis team, \ery little removed, except in shape, 
Tom the brute he drives. 
Wishing your patriotic exertions their so 



* The above is extracted from the third vo. 
ne of Sir John Sinclair's Statistics, p. 598. 
was inclosed to Sir John by Mr Riddel 
Jiseif in the following letter, also primed 



• I inclose yon a letter, written by Mr Burns, 

an addition to the account of Dnnscore par- 

li. It contains an account of a small library 

which he was so good, (at my desire) as to set 

ot, in the barony of iVfonkland, or Friar's 

;, in thi= parish. As its utility has been 

felt, pajrticiUarly among the jouoget class of 



BURNS.— LETTERS. 



No. XCl. 

TO MR GILBERT BURNS. 

EllisUi7td, llih January, 1790. 
T)E4R BROTHER, 
1 meiiri 10 take advantage of the frank, though 
i have not in my present frame of uimd niucii 
appetite for '"' ' 



hypochondria pervaiii 
body and soul. Thi 
enjoyment of myself, 
all hands. But let ii 
it out and be I'ft' with 
We have ootteu a = 



slate. 



jvery atom of both 
^as undone d)> 
uinous alia r ou 
! 1 'U %iit 

V decent pi >yers 






David < 



Sutherland, who i.s a man of apparent worth. 
Ou New-year-uay evening 1 jiave him the 
follov*ing proiosue. whicu he apouled to his 
audience with applause. 

No song uor dance I bring from yon great 

city, 
Tnalqueeub it o'er our taste— the more's the 

P''y • 
Though, hy the bje, abroad why will you 

roam > 
Good sense and t'ste are natives here at home.: 
But not lor panegyric I at-'pear, 
I come to wish you all a good new year ! 
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye. 
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 
The sage grave aucieui cough 'd, and bade me 

•'Toure one .ear older this important day," 

It- If .-i. loo he inu'td some siigge.-tion, 

Bui 'twou d be rude, you kaow, to ask the 

And with a wouid-be-roguish leer and wink, 
Ue bade me on jou press this one word — 
'•'■ THINK :'"' 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope 

and spirit. 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
•To you the dotard has a deal to say. 
In his isly, dry, sententious, proverb way! 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless 

rattle. 
That the tirst blow is ever half the battle ; 
That though some by the skirt may try to 

snatch him. 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him. 



r forbearing, 

ring. 

Last, though not least, in love, ye jouthfa 

Angelic lorms, high Heaven's peculiar caret 
10 you old Bald pate smooths his wrinkle 

And humbly begs you'll mind the important— 

NOW 1 
To crown your happiness, he asks your leav 
And oflers, bliss to gi\e and to receive. 

For our sincere, though haply weak en. 
deavourb. 
With grateful pride we own your many 



No. XCU. 
TO SIRS DUNLOP. 
Misland, 2othJam,aiy, 17iW. 
een owing to unremitting hurry oi 
hat I have not written to you, maaam, 
low. My tiealth is greatly better, and 
gin once more to share in satisfactioa 
ilh the rest of my feilovv- 



J5 teemed friendt 



people, 1 think, that if a similar plan were 
ttiablistied, in the different parishes of Scot- 
land, it would tend greatly to the speedy ira- 
provemeat of the tenantry, trades people, and 
work people. >Jr Bnrns wras so good as lo 
take tile whole charge of this small concern. 
He was treasurer, libraiian, and censor to this 
liitle society, who will long have a patetui 
sense of his public spirit and exer. ions for lh<.:r 
iiaprovement and information. 

I bare the houoiur to be. Sir John, 
• If^ours most sinccrelv, 

•ROBERT ia-MJE!^' 
To ffir John Siiidair 
^ Viiiler, Bart. 



and eiijoymeul 



ftiany thanks, mj 
for your kind letters: uui wny w ui you iu«&e 
me run the risk of being contemptible and 
mercenary in my own eyes ! When I pique 
myself on my iiulepeudent spirit, I hope it is 
nether poetic licence, nor poetic rant ; and I 
8!U so lialttred with the honour jou have done 

and irienaly correspouaence, that _ l cannot, 
without pain, and a degree of niurtili cation, oe 
reminaed of the real inequality between OUT 

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dea 
madam, in the good news of Anthony. Not 
only your anxiety about his fate, but my own 
esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, manly 
young fellow, in the little 1 hadol his acquaint- 
ance, has interested me deeply in his fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the 
Skipwreck, which you so much admire, is no 
more. Alter weathering the dreacful catas- 
trophe he so feelingly descriDes in his uoeic, 
and after weathering many hard gales or lor- 
tune, he went to the bottom with the Aurora 
frigate! I forget what part of Scotland had 
the honour of giving him birth, but he was 
the sou of obscurity and misfortune.* He 



* Falconer was in early life a sea-boy, ta 
use a Word of Miakspeare, on board a man-ot- 
war, in winch capacity he attracted the notice 
of Caiiipt'eil, the author of the satire on Dr 
Jobiisou, entitled LexipiutJies, then purser of 
the ship. Campbell took him as bis servant, 
h\:.\ delighted in giving hiir iur.tructiou ; and 
s^heu talconer aftetuatds aci^uired celebiitj, 
I 



130 



DIA5I03VD CABINET LIBRARY. 



wu one of tboee daring adventarons spirits, 
^hich Scotland, beyond any otQ-^r oountrj, ii 
remarkable for producirs. Little does th« 
fond mother thinK, as vbf h&aga d^ighted aret 
the s\*-eet little leech at her bosom, where tb« 
poor fellow maj hereafter wander, and wiul 
may be his fate. I remember a stanza in. an 
old Scottish ballad, which, aotwithjlaading 
i(( rude simplicity, speaks feelingly to the 
heart :— 

•• Little did my mother think. 

That da» she cradied m; 
What land I was to trarel in. 

Or what death 1 should die. " 



, a fiiToar- 



Old Scottish sonw^ are, yon know 
he study and pursuit of mine ; and 
rn that subject, allow me to give yoo 
ttanzas of another old simple ballad, which I 
am sure will please you. The catastrophe of 
the piece is a poor ruined female, lamenting 
ber fate. She concludes with this pathetie 
wish I 

•• O that my father had ne'er on me smiled ; 
O that my mother had n*'er to me sung! 

that my cradle had ne^er b«en rock 'd ; 
But that I had died when I was young ! 

«« O that the grave it were my bed ; 

My blankets were my winding sheet ; 

Tbo clocks and the worms my bedfellows a' 

And O sae sound as 1 should sleep ! " 

1 do not remember in all my reading to ha»i 
nuet with any thing more truly the !angTJa?-e of 
misery, than the exclamation in the last line, 
Misery is likfl lo^e ; to speak its languag< 
truly, the author must have felt it. 

lam every day expecting the doctor to give 
your little god-son * the imall-pox. They are 
rife in the country, and I tremble for his fate. 
B*y the way, I cannot help congratulating you 
on his looks and spirit. Every person who 
tees him, acknowledges him to be the finest, 
andsomest child he has ever seen. I am 
toyself delighted with the manly swell of his 
.Ifitie chest, and a certain miniature dignity in 



boasted of him as his scholar. The editor had 
this informa'ion from a surgeon of a man-of 
war, in 1777, who knew both Campbell and 
Falconer, and who himself pprished soon after 
by shipwreck, on the coast of America. 

Though the death of Falconer happened eo 
lately as 1770 or 1771, yet in the bio^aphy 
prefixed by Dr Anderson to his works, in the 
complete edition of the Poets of Great Britain, 
it is said, "Of the family, birth-place, and 
education of William Falconer, there are no 
memorials. " On the authority already given, 
it may be mentioned, that he was a native of 
one of the town? on the coa.=t of Fife, and that 
his parents, who bad suffered some misfor- 
tunes, removed to one of the sea-ports of Eng- 
land, where they both died, soon after, of an 
epidpmic fever, leaving poor Falconer, then 
ab.iv, forlorn and destitut^. In consequence 
ot wliieb he entered on board a man of war. 
Ttese last circumstances are however less 
«artain. 

* The bard's second son, Francis. 



the carriage of his head, and glance of his f ■• 
black eye, which promise the undaunted ^al- 
laatrv of an independent mind. 

I thought to have seat you some rhymes, hot 
time forbids. I promise you poetry until yoa 
are tired of it, next time I hare the hoBOtur of 
assuring yoa bow tralj £ am, &c. 



No. XCIIL 

FROM MR CUNNINGHAM 

iSth January, 1790. 
In some instances it is reckoned unpardonable 
to quote any one's own words ; but the value 
I have for your friendship, nothin? can mora 
truly, or more elegantly express, than 

takes. 



Having written to y«« twice without having 
heard from you, I am apt to think my letters 
have miscarried. My conjecture is only framed 
upon the chapter of accidents turning up 
against me, as it too often does, in the trivial, 
and I may with truth add, the more important 
afl'airs of 'life: but I shall continue occasionally 
to inform yon what is going on among the 
circle of your friends in these parts. In these 
days of merriment, I have frequeutly heard 
your name proclaimed at the jovial board — . 
under the roof of our hospitable friend at 
Stenfaouse Mills, there were no 

" Lingering moments number *d with care. " 

I saw your Addrets to the Nno-vear in th« 
Dumfries Journal. Of your productions I 
shall say nothing, bat my acquaintances allege 
that when your name is mentioned, which 
every man of celebrity mnst know often hap- 
pens, I am the champion, the Mendoza against 
all snarling critics, and narrow-minded rep- 
tiles, of whom a/rtc on this planet do oawL 

With best compliments to your wife, andhor 
black- eyed sister, I remain, yours, && 



TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

EUisland, 13(A February, 1790. 
I beg yonr pardon, my dear and much valued 
friend, for writing to yon on ibis very un- 
fashionable, onsifhtlj sheet — 

*« My poverty but not my will consents. " 

But to make emends, since of modish post 
I have none, except onf poor widowed naif 
sheet of ^ilt, which lies in my drawer amonff 
my plebeian foolscap oases, like the widow of 
a man of fashion, whom that cnpolite «conn. 
drel. Necessity, has driven from Burgundy 
and Pine-apple, to a dish of Bohea, with tb« 



JC RXg,_LETTE R S. 



KftBilal-bcarfn^ li^^p-nate of ■ Tillage priest ; 
or • fUs* rf T»hi»Wy-U>ddj, wrth the ruby- 
momi yoke-fellow of « foot-p*^diDg excigemaa 
—I mak* k TOW to inclose this iheetful of 
•piatolarj frmfisents in that n; eol; fcrap of 
fill fMp«r. 

1 am indeed yotir caworthy debtor for three 
fritndly letters. I oa?ht t« ba»e wriitea to 
yon loQg tre now, bat it is a lit»ral fact, 1 oaTe 
•carc«ly a spare moment. ]i is act thai I 
vnil n«t writ* to lou ; >iis9 BuTDet is not mors 
dear t» her gnardiaa an^el, n«r his grace the 

Duke of to th^ pow?rs of , 

than my friend Cnnningham to me. It is not 
that 1 cannot write to jnu: should yon doubt 
it, tike the following fragment which was in- 
tende« for yoo some lime a§o, and be conTioted 
that I eao aniilru-gite ceatiment, aud etrrujuiv- 
tiite p«riods, a^ well as atiy coiner of phrase iii 
tile refioos ot philology. 

Deumber, 1789. 

MT DRAB CUWTfirroHAli, 
Where ar* yon f And what ar« yon doin^ ? 
Can yo« be that ion ot leTity, wqo takes op" a 
Iriend&bip aa be takes op » fathinn ; or are 
yon, like iome other of the wortbiest fello 



obedience. 



to ••Sincere, tboogh isiperfset 



the world, the i 



1 of inaoleuce, laden 



e beiuei w» are ! Since we hav« 



■ portio 

l.le of enjoying pleaiore, bappmesa, and rap- 
ture, or of sutltan^ pain, wretchednesi, and 
tDist-ry, it is surely worthy of am inquiry, 
w tttriher there be not tnch a thing a» a »ei<»Qee 
ot lite ; whether method, economy, and fertil- 
ity of espedieuts b« not applicable to enjoyment; 
and whether there b« not • want of dextenty in 
pleasure, which renden o»r litle aeantiinj of 
happiness stili less ; and a profuteness, an in- 
toxication in bliss which leads to satxely, dis- 
mast, and eelf-abhorrenee. Thtre is not a 
. doubt btit that health, talerts, character, 
I decent coicpetcney, respectable friends, are 
^ real rabstantial bleesings ; and yet do we not 
iaily see those who enjoy many or sll of these 
food tbinffs, ooBtriTe, notwithstanding, to be 
M onhappy us others to whose lot few of them 
teTs fallen. I belieTe one great source of this 
jiistake or misconduct is owing to a certain 
Btimulns, with us called ambition, which goads 
Hs np the hill of life, not as we ascend other 
eminences, for the laadable ctirio«ity of riewing 
an extended landscape, but rather for the dis- 
honest pride of looking down on others of oar 
fellow-creatures, e€«mingly dinunatiTe* in 
hambl* stations, dc JStc 



Sunday, Wih Fd/nuary, 1790. 
CSod help me ! I am now obliged to joia 
•• Night to day, and Sunday to the week. " 



tion, end what is worse, — — — to all eter- 
■ity. I am deeply read iM BotUm'n Povrfoli 
State, Ma'thaii on Stmdifieation, Gvthria'$ 
Triai <(f a wtnng Intettst, ^re. b« •• There is 
BO baim lo Gilead, th"»rB is oo physician 
tb«Te, " for me i su 1 shaii e 'nu turn ArmiBiuD, 



Tuetday, IGih. 
I-opkily for me, I was prwrentcd from the dis- 
cu>t>ioa of tbe knotty point at which i had jnst 
tr.ade a full stop. All my fws and cares are 
of -his world : if there is anotbo', an honest 
man hai nothing to fear from it. I hate a man 
that wishe« to be a Deist, but I fear, eTery fiur, 
tiiiTinfjudiced inquirer must in some degree be a 
' sceptic It i« not that there are any Tery stag- 
gering arguments against the immortality of 
I man ; but like electricity, phlogiston, iia. tbe 
i subject is so inTolTed in darkness, that we want 
I data to fT) upon. One thing frightens me 
I much ; teat we are to liTe for e»«T, seems too 
good nev$ to be true. Ibat we are to enter 
into a new scene ot existence, where, exempt 
from want and pain, we shall eutoy onr^lTes 
and oDr friend* withoat satiety or separations 
how mneh shonld I be indebted to any one 
who eouid fuJl} assure me that this was cer« 



My time is ones more erprred. T will writ, 
to Mr Cleghore •oon. Crod btess him and ai. 
his concerns ! Ajid may all tlie powers tha. 
presids otbt «»nTiTialu? and fnenJsnip, b 
present with all their kindest influence, wher 
tbe bearer of this, 31r Syme, and von meet I 
I wish I eonld also make one, — t think we 
sbocld be 

Fnally, brethren, farewell ! 'WbatsoeTer 
things are lovely, whatsoeTer things are gentle, 
wbatsoeTPT things are charitaiiie. whatsoever 
things are kind, think on these things, aod 
til ink on 

ROBEaT BUILV8. 



N«. XCT. 

TO MB HILL. 

EllislanJ, td March, 1700. 
At a late m<»etiQg of the Wonkland Fnendly 
Society, it wao rssoived to augment their library 
by the following books, which yon are to send 
tu as soon as possible; — Th« ili'^ror, Tfie 
Lounger, Mm of Feilins, Man of the Wc-h, 
(^these for my own sake I wish to haTe in me 
first carrier) Knox't History of the Rejc-ra- 
tion ; Jhie '« History of the ReheUiim in 5 ' 1 5 ; 
any good Hutory of the Ktbeilion in \7-\b ; A 
birplay of the Secession Act and Tetitmor.-j, by 
Mr Gibbj Hervey's Meditations; Hitxr.dia't 
TfiougfUs i and another copy of Watson '« fic-d^ 
of Divutiiy. 

I WTMe to Mr A. Masterton three or four 
months ago, to pay some money he owed ma 
into yonr htmds, and lately i wrote to you to 
the same purpose, but I have beard from nei- 
ther one or other of yon. 

In addition to the books I eommissioned ia 
mj last, 1 want T«ry much. Art Index to tha 
£xet«e Laics, or an Abridgment of all tha Sta- 
tute* Kow in force, relative to the Ejfcise, by 
Jellinger Symons i I want three copies of this 
book; if It ia now to be bad, cheap or i»ai. 



r.s 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



pet It for me. An honest country neighbour 
cf mine wants, too, A Fumii 1/ Bible, the larger 
the better, but second handed, for he does not 
choose to give above ten shillings for tbe book. 
1 waat likewise for mvself, as you can pick 
them up, second-handed or cheap, copies of 
Oitcai/'s Dramatic Works, Ben Jonsan'K, Dry- 
den's, Congreve's, Wycfu-rlej/'s, Fanbrugfi's, 
CiOber's, or sltij Drcmaiic Works of the more 
modern — Macklin, Garrick, Foote, Coiinan, or 
SheriaoM. A good copy too of Moliere, in 
French, I much want. Any other pood dra- 
matic authors in that language 1 want also ; 
but comic authors chieHy, though I should 
wish to have Racine, O'rneiUe. and Voltaire 
too. I am in no hurry for all, or any of tliese, 
but if you acciientally meet with them very 
cheap, get them for me. 

And now, to quit the dry walk of business. 
Low do vou do, my dear friend ? and iiow is 
Airs HiU : I trust if now and then not so 
elegantly handsome, at !e;ist as amiable, and 



sings a 



JJv 






wUq; '• now 



I am out of all patience with this vile world, 
for one thing. Mankind are by nature bene- 
volent creatures ; except in a few scoundrelly 
instances, 1 do noi ihiuk that avarice of the 
good things we chance to buvp, is born with 
us ; but we are placed here amid so much 
nakedness, and hunger, and poverty, and want, 
that we are under a cursed necessi'ty of study- 
ing selfishness, in order that we may exist"; 
Still there are, in every age, a few souls, thut 
all the wants and woes of life cannot debase 
selfishness, or even to the necessary alloy of 



n and pruden 
"ity. ■ ■ 






Ife 



this side of my disposition and chaiacfer. 
<jJod knows I am no saint; 1 have a whole 
Lost of follies and sins to answer for ; but if 1 
could, and I believe I do it as far as I can, ] 
would wipe away all tears from all eyes. 
Adieu I 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 10th April, 1790. 
I have just now, my ever-honoured friend, 
enjoyed a very high luxury, in reading a puper 
of the Lounger. You know my national pre- 
judices. I had often read and admired the 
Spectator, Adventurer, Rambler, and World'. 
but still with a certain regret, that they were 
so thoroughly and entirely English. Alas ! 
kave I ofter said to myself, what are all the 
boasted advantages which my country reaps 
from the Union, that can counterbalance the 
annihilation of her independence, and even her 
very name! 1 often repeat that couplet of my 
favourite post. Goldsmith — 



Nothing can reconcile me to the comreo* 
terms, " English ambassador, English court, '* 
&c. And I am out of all patience to see that 
equivocal character, Hastings, impeached by 
"the Commons of England." 'Jell me, my 
friend, is this weak prejudice ? 1 believe in 
my conscience such ideas, as, "my country ; 
her independence ; her honour ; the illustrious 
names that mark the history of my native 
land, " A(C. — 1 believe these, among your men 
of the World— xnea who in fact guide for the 
most part and govern our world, are looked oa 
as so many niodibcations of wrongheadedness. 
They know the use of bawling out such terms, 
to rouse or lead the rabcie ; but for theup 
own private use, witn almost all the able slatea- 
men that ever existed, or now exist, when thej 
talk of right and wrong, they only mean proper 
and improper ; and their measure of conduct 
is, not w bat they ov^ht, but what they dare, 
hor the truth of thid 1 shall not ransack the 
liistory of nations, but appeal to one of the 
ablest judges of men, anu himself one of the 
ablest men that ever lived — the celebrated 
Earl of Chesterfield. In fact, a man who 
could thoroughly control h s vices whenever 
they interfered with his interest, and who 
could completely put on the appearance of 
every virtue as often as it suited his purposes, 
is, on the Stanliopiau pbiii, xUepcrfict man ; a 
man to lead nation-., iiiit are great abiiities., 
complete without a flaw, and po.ished without 
a blemish, the standard of human excellence ? 
'ihis is certainly the staunch opinion of men of 
the world; but 'l call on honour, virtue, and 
worth, to give the Stsgiao doctrine aloud ne- 
gative! However, this must be allowed, that, 
u abstract from man the idea of an exist- 
beyond the grave, then, the true measure 
conduct is proper and improper. 



discord 
delicate s( 
music, th( 



of th( 

ly the import 

the world at large, as harmony 



nd 



he moditicatio 

e of hoi 

jh it may sometimes give the pos- 

organs of the herd, yet, considering the harsh 
gratings, and inharmonic jars, in this ill-tuned 
state of being, it is odds but the individual 
would be as happy, and certainly would be as 
much respected hy the true judges of society, 
as it would then stand, without either a good 
ear or a good heart. 

You must know I have just met with the 
Mirror and Lounger for the first time, and I 
am quite in raptures with them: I should be 
glad to have your op i nion of some of the papers. 
The one I have just read. Lounger, Ko. bl, 
has cost me more honest teajs than any thing 
I have read of a long time. WKenzie has 
been called the Addison of the Scots, and in 
my opinion, Addison would not be hurt at tbe 
comparison. If he has not Addison's exquis.ie 
humour, he as certainly cutdoes him in ihe 

der and the pathetic. His Man of Feeling 1 
(but I am not counsel-learned in the laws of 
) I estimate as the first performance 
in its kind I ever saw. From what books, 
moral or even pious, will the susceptible young 
mind receive impressions more congenial to 
humanity and kindness, generosity and bene- 
volence ; iu short, more of all that ennobles , 
the soul to herself, or eudears her to others— 



BURNS— LETTERS. 



tb&o from the simple affecting tale of poor 
llarle.y. 

Stillj with all my admiration of M'Kenzie'B 
wriliugs, I do not know if they are the fittest 
reading for a young man who is about to sei 
out, as the phrase is, to make his way into life. 
Do not you think, madam, that among the few 
favoured of Heaven in the structure of theii 
minds (for such there certainly are), there may 
be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an elegi 
of soul, which are of no use, na> , in some 
gree, absolutely disqualifying for the truly 
important business of makir.g a man's way into 
life. If I am not much mistaken, my gallant 

young friend, A , is very much under 

these disqualifications ; and for the young fe- 
males of a family I could mention, well 
they excite parental solicitude, for I, a com 
acquaintance, or, as iny vaui'y will have il 
bumble friend, have often trembled for a 
of mind which may render them eminently 
happy -or peculiarly miserable ! 

I have been manufacturing some vt 
lately ; but as I have got the most hurried 
season of excise business over, I hope to have 
more leisure to transcribe any thing that may 
show how much I have the honour to ' 
madam, jours, itc. 



FROM MR CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh, 2ath May, 1790. 

MS DEAR BURNS, 
I am much indebted to you for your last 
friendly, elegant epistle, and it shall make a 
part of the vanity of m^ compositio;i, to retain 
jour correspondence through life. It was 
remarkable your introducing the name of Miss 
Burnet, at a time when she was in such ill 
health I and I am sure it will grieve your gen • 
tie aeart, to hear of her being in the last stage 
of a consumption. Alas! that so much beauty, 
ianocence, and virtue, should be nipt in the 
bud. Her's was the smile of cheerfulness— of 
sensibility, not of allurement ; and her elegance 
of manners corresponded with the purity and 
elevation of her mind. 

How does your friendly muse ? I am sure 
she still retains her aflection for you, and that 
you have many of her favours in your posses- 
sion, which I have not seen. I weary much 
to hear from you. I beseech you, do not forget 



I most sincerely hope all your concern? in 
life prosper, and that your roof-tree enjoys the 
blessing of good health. All your frienda here 
are well, among whom, and not the least, is 
jour acquaintance, Cleghorn. As for myself, 

I am well, as far as ^ '" 

let a man be ; but with these I am happy. 

When yon meet with my very agreeable 
friend, J. Syme, give him for me a hearty 
squeeze, andbid God bless him. 

Is there any probability of your being soon 
ki Edinburgh ? 



No. XCIX. 
TO DR MOORE. 
Dumfi-ies, Excise-Office, UthJuIy, 1790. 



of writing to ynu, as franking i 
under a temporary death. I shall have some 
snatches of leisure through the day, amid our 
horrid business and bustle, and I shall improva 
them as well as I can ; but let my letter be as 

stupid as , as miscellaneous as a 

newspaper, as short as a hungry grace-before- 
nieat.or as long as a law-paper in the Douglas- 
cause ; as ill-spelt as country John's billet- 
doux, or as unsightly a scrawl as Betty Byre- 
mucker's answer to it; I hope, considering 
circumstances, you will forgive it ; and as it 
will put J on to no expense of postage, 1 shall 
have the less reflection about it. 

I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you 
my thanks for your most valuable present, 
Zeluco, In fact, you are in some degree 
Dlameable for my neglect. You were pleased 
to express a wish for uiy opinion of the work, 
which so flattered me, that nothing less would 
serve my overweening fancy, than a formal 
criticism on the book. In fact, I have gravely 
planned a comparative view of you. Fielding, 
Richardson, and SmoUet, in your diflerent 
qualities and merits as novel-writers. This, X 
own, betrays my ridiculous vanity, and I maj 
probably never bring the business to bear ; but 
I am fond of the spirit young Elihu shows ia 
the book of Job — "And I said, I will also 
declare my opinion. " I have quite disfigured 
my copy of the book with my annolarious. I 
never take it up, without at the same time 
taking my pencil, and marking with asterisks, 
s, &c. wherever I meet ■«■ ' 






vith 



ell ti 



mark < 



. life ai 
•ued period, > 



Though I shall hardly think of fairly writ- 
ing out my "Comparative View," I shall 
certainly trouble you with my remarks, such 
as they are. I have just received from my 
sentleman, that horrid summons in the book 
Sf Revelations— " That time shall be no 



char 

debted to the fair author for the book, and 
not, as I rather suspect, to a celebrated author 
of the other sex, I should certainly have writ- 
ten to the lady, with my grateful acknowledge 
ments, and my own ideas of the comparative 
excellence of her pieces. I would do this last, 
not from any vanity of thinking that my re- 
marks could be of much consequence to Mrs 
Smith, but merely from my own feelings as aa 
author, doing as I would be done by. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

nSAR MADAM, SUl Jugtut, 1790. 

After a loug day's toil, plague, and sare« I 
sit down to write to you. Ask me not why I 
have delayed it so long? It was owing to 
burry, indolence, and bfty other tbint^si iu 
'ihort, to any thing — bat fi>rj«ifui&rr»s of la 
vita Mtnable de son 6eit. By tb« Dye, jua are 
indebted vour best cuurtevy to mi> fur this last 
compliment; as I pay it frDiD >inoer« eoovia- 
tion of its truth — a quaiiij racber tare la «oia- 
plimenttf of these gnuoing, buvriu|;, scraping 
times. 

Well, I hope writing to you, will easa a 
litue my troubled tuul. Surely has it heen 
bruised to-day ! A ei-devaut friend of mine, 
and an intimate acquaintance of yonra, has 
given my feeling's a wound that I percene will 
gangrene dangerously we it cure. Ue huM 
wounded my pride I 



TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, Sth August, 1790> 
Forgive me, my once dear, and ever tk'.y 
friend, my seeming negligence. You caiuiot 
ait down, and fancy the busy life I lead. 

I laid down my goose feather to beat my 
brains for an apt simile, and had some thoughts 
of a country graiuiam at a family chriiieuing i 
% brida on the market-day before hermarriuge; 



a tavern-keeper at an election dinner, &c. ice. 
^but the resemblance that hits my fancy best 
8, that blackguard miscreant, Satan, who 
roams about like a roaring lion, seeking, 
starrhuig whom he may devour. However, 
tossed about as 1 am, if I choose (and who 
would not choose) to bind down with the 
crainpets of attention, the brazen foundation 
of integrity, I may rear up the superstructure 
of Independence, and, from its daj-ing turrets, 
oid defiance to the storms of fate. Ana is not 
this a •• eoosummation devoutly to be wish- 

edr •• 



Lord of the lioa-heart, and eagle-eye 
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare. 

Nor need th« storm that howls along tha 
skyi" 

Are not tnc4» noble versos t They are *^e 
Aitroduction of SmolUt's Ode to Independence i 
if ;oa have not seen the poem, I will send it 
«o yoB- How wretched is the man that hangs 
»n by the favours of the great. To shrink 
fom every dignity of man, at the approach of 

lordly piece of self-consequence, wlio, amid 
Jl his tinsel glitter, and stately hauteur, is but 

creature formed as thuu art — and pi^rhaps 
•«t ao n«li formed as thou an — cam» inio the 



N«v CL 

FROM DR BLACRLOCK. 

Edinburgk, Ui Sevtember, 17P0. 
How does my dear friend ? — much I languish 



1 Mea'_ this epistle in verefl to have written ( 
liut frjd! (i^f> and inhrmit), induieuct^ flows. 
And Lhi>, much I tear, will restore tus t 
pro«B. 
I U> my business I wish to proceed, 
udernou guides and provokes me to speed, 
A man of miegiii, , genius, and worth. 
Who souD a performance intends to set forth ; 
A work misceiluueous, eileut've, and free. 
Which tviil weekly appear, ij,- .He name of the 



e you 

Entangled with business, and haunted w>tb 
Id which more or less human nature must 

Seme moments of leisure the Muses wiU 

ciaiui, 

Bee, 
bloc 

With some rays of your genius her work may 
illume, 

AVhilst tne Hower whence her honey sponta- 
neously ilows. 

As fragrantly smells, and as vig'rously grows. 

Now with kind gratulations 'tis time to con- 
cluae. 
And add, your promotion is here understood ; 
'Ihus free from the servile employ of ex- 



I 



We hope s 
You then 



)ulrol. 



> hear you commence super- 
a at leisure, and free from 



May indulge the strong passion that reigns ia 
your souL 
ut 1, feeble i, must to nature give way ; 
Devoted cold death's and longevity 's prey. 
From yernKM tho' languid my thoughts must 

on bend, 
'l"ho' stiii 1 remain your affectionate friend, 
lliO. BLACfiXOCK. 



* The preceding letter explains the feelings 
under which this was written. The sUain of 
indignant invective goes on some time longer 
in the style which our bard was too apt to itX' 
dulge, and of which the reader has already 
seen so mucb 



BLR.\S.-.L£TTERS. 



ins 



No. CIL 

xzTiiACT or A usmoL 

FROM MR CUNNINGHAM. 

Editiburgk, UtA October, 1790. 
I lataly r«cei-»«d a letter from our fnend 

B , — tvliat a chanaing fellow Iost to 

Bociety — born lo great expectatioiit. — fvan hu- 
perior abilities, a pure heart and nniaiuted 
worala, fait fate iu life hu been bard indeed — 
Ktill 1 am persuadfd be is happy i uut like the 
gallant, the ga^ Lothario, but in the tiiniplicity 
of rural enjojineut, nnmiied with regtetatthe 
remembrance of '* the dajs of other years. ** 

I saw Air Uunbar put, under ihe cover of 
jour newspaper, Mr Wood's Poem on Tiium- 
Bon. This poem has sug-gested on idea to me 
which jou alone are capable to execute : — a 
<ong adapted to each, seanon of the year. The 
task ia ditScult, but the theme if charming: 
choald you succeed, 1 will undertake to get 
new music worthy of the subject. What a 
line field for your imagination, and who is 
there alive can draw so many beauties from 
Nature and pastoral imagery aa yourself? It 
is, b> the way, surprising that there doea not 
exist, so far as I know, a proper song for each 
season. We have songs on hunting, lishing, 
skaiting, and one Ru(umnal 6o;ig, Harvest 
Home, As your muse is neither spavied nor 
rusty, you may mount the hill of Parnassus, 
and return with a sonnet in your pocket for 
ererj season. For my suggestions, if I be 
rude, correct me ; if impertinent, chastise me ; 
if presuming, despise me. But if you blend 
all m^ weaknesses, and pound out one grain 
of insincerity, then am I not thy 

Faithful friend, &c. 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

November, 1790. 
** As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good 
Dews from a far country. " 

Fate has long owed me a letter of good news 
from you, in return for the many tidings of 
sorrow which 1 have received. In this in- 
stance I most cordially obey the apostle^ 

*' Rejoice with them that do rejoice" for me 

to ting for joy is no new thing ; but U> preach 
for joy, as I have done in the commencement 
of this epistle, is a pitch of extravagant rapture 
to which I never rose before. 

1 read your letter—i literally jnmped for 
joy*— Uow coold «uch a mercurial creature as a 
poet, Inmpi&hly keep his seat on the receipt 
of the best news from bis best friend, 1 seized 
my gilt-headed Wangee rod, an instrument 
indispensably necessary, in my left hand, in 
the moment of inspiration and rapture ; and 
stride, stride — quick and quicker — out skipt I 
among the broomy banks of N\th, to muse over 
my joy by retail. To keepvithin the bounds 
of prose was impossible. iUrs Little's is a 



more elegant, bnt not a more sincere compli. 
meut to t tie sw'et Utile teilow tbui I, eXcru^- 
pore almust, j).)ur«d ool to ti-m iu ttie following 
f nrses. b-j* ifco ^nnia—Ox ike liirth of a i'osU 
kurnosu ChiiO. 

I an ntncfa datterrd by jont approbation of 
my Tom o' Shanter, which you express in 
To'ur former letter, though, b^ the bye, you 
load me in tna: Qeid letter with accusations 
heavy and many ; to all which I plead tiol 
guilty 1 Your Dock is, I hear, on the road to 
reach me. As to printing of poetry, when yoa 
prepare it for the press, yon have only to spei.» 
it right, and place the capital letters properly^, 
as to the punctuation, the printers do tha^ 
themselves. 

I have a copy of Tam «' Shanter ready te 
send you by the first opportunity : it is tor 
bea>y to send by post. 

I heard of I^ir Corbet lately. He, in consei. 
quence of your recommendation, is most zeaU 
ous to serve me. Please favour me soon with 
an account of your good folks ; if Mrs H. is 
recovering, and the young gentleBian cLoin^ 
well. 



..O MR CUNNINGHAM. 

EUisland, 2Zd January, 1791. 
Many happy returns of the season to you, vay 
dear friend ! As many of the good things of 
this life, as is consistent with the usual mil 
ture of good and evil in the cup of being ! 

1 have jusi tinighed a poem, which you wil 
receive inclosed- It is uiy first essay in th« 
way of tales. 

1 have, these several months, been hammer- 
ing at an elegy on the amiable and accomplished 
Miss Burneu 1 have gut, and can get, nu 
farther than the following fragment, on which 
please give me your strictures. In all kind* ot 
poetic composition, I set great store by your 
opinion ; cut in sentimental verses, in the poe- 
try of the heart, no Roman Catholic ever set 
more value on the infallibility of the Holy 
Father than I do on yours. 

1 mean the introductory couplets as text 
verses. 



ELEGY 



ON THB liATE MISS BUFNET OF MONBODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize. 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triumph 'd in a blow. 
As mat vv iiich laid the loccomplished Burnet 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget t 
In richest ore Ihe brightest jewel set ! 
In thee, high Heaven above was (ruest shown. 
As ty his noblest work the Godhead best is 
known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves 
"'hiXi crystal streamlet, with thy IJowery 
shore : 



oiA.-vjoNi) Cabinet LIBRARY. 



Te heatby wastes, ii 

Ye mossy stream 
stored. 
Ye rugged clifts o'erhangin^ dreary glens. 

To you I fly, ye witli my soul accord. 

Princes, w^hose cnmb'rous pride was all their 

Shall veual lays their pompous exit hail ; 

And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth. 

And not a muse in honest grief bewail ? 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride. 
And yirtne's light that beams beyond the 



e hear from you soon. Adieu I 



TO MR PETER HILL. 

17M January, 1791. 
Take these two guineas, and place them over 

against that — account of .\ours, which 

has gagged my mouth these live or six months I 
I can as little write good things as apologies 
to the man 1 owe money to. 6 the supreme 
curse of making three guineas do the business 
of five ! Not all the labours of Hercules ; not 
all the Hebrews' three centuries of Egyptian 
bondage were such an insuperable business, 

Eucn an task ! * Poverty ! thou half- 

Bister of death, thou cousin-german of hell ! 
where shall I find force of execration equal to 
the amplitude of thy demerits? Oppressed by 
thee, the venerable ancient, grown hoary in 
the practice of every virtue, laden with years 
and wretchedness, implores a little— little aid 
to support his existence, from a stony-hearted 
son of Mammon, whose sun of prosperity never 
knew a cloud ; and is by him denied and in- 
tuited. Oppressed by thee, the man of senti- 
ment, whose heart glows with independence, 
and melts with sensibility, inly pines under the 
neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul, under 
the contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. 
Oppressed by thee, ihe son of genius, whose 
ill-starred ambition plants him at the tables of 
the fashionable and polite, must see, in sufFer- 
ing silence, his remark neglected, and his 
person despised, while shallow greatness, in 
his idiot aiiempts at wit, shall meet with 
cciuntenunce and applause. Nor is it only the 
family of worth that have reason to complain 
of thee ; the children of foUv and vice, thou-h 
in common with thee, the' offspring of evii, 
smart equally under thy rod. Owing to thee, 
the uii'U of unfortunate disposition and neglect- 
ed education, is condemned as a fool for his 
dissipation, de-spised and shunned as a needy 
wretch, when his follies, as usua!, bring him 
to want : and when his unprincipled necessities 
drive him to dishonest practices, he is abhorred 
as a miscreatii, ind perishes by the justice of 
nis country. But f.r ..li.erwise is The lot of 
the uiaii of tamjy aud fortune. HU earh 



I follies and exfravag^nce, are 'pi'rit and fire; 
his consequent wanti>, are the embarrassments 
of an honest fellow ; and when, to remedy iht 
matter, he has gained a legal commission t« 
plunder distant provinces, or massacre peace- 
ful nations, he returns, perhaps, laden with 
the spoils of rapine and murder; lives wicked 

and respected, and dies a and a lord. 

— Nay, worst of all, alas for helpless woniaii I 
the needy prosthute, who has shivered at the 
corner of the sfeet, waiting to earn the wages 
of carnal prostitution, is left neglected and in- 
sulted, ridden down by the chariot wheels of 
the coroneted bip, hurraing on to the guilty 
assignation: she, who, wltbout the same 
necessities to plead, riots nightly in the same 
guilty trade. 

Well, divines may saj of it what the* 
please, but execration is to the miud, wh-- 
pblebotoiny is to the body ; the vital sluices o 
both are wonderfully relieved bj liieir respeo 
tive evacuations. 



FROM A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 

Edinbitrgh., I2ih March, 17 9 1, 

DEAR SIK, 
Mr Hill yesterday put into my hands a sh# 
of Groft's Antiquities, containing a poem 
yours, entitled 2'am o' Shattter, a tale. Ih 
very high pleasure I have received from th« 
pernsal of this admu-able piece, Ifeel, demand* 
the warmest acknowledgments. Hill tells me 
he is to send off a packet for you this day ; 1 
cannot resist therefore putting on paper what 
1 must have told jou in perijon, had 1 met 
with you after the recent perusal of jour talei 
which is, that 1 feel I owe you a debt, whiclv 
if undischarged, would reproach me with ii» 
gratitude. I have seldom in my life tasted at 
higher enjoyment from any work of genius, 
than I have received from this composition ; 
and I am much mistaken, if this poem alone, 
had yon never written another sjUable, would 
not have been sufficient to have transmiiied 
your name down to posterity with high repM- 
tation. In the introductory part, where jou 
paint the character of your hero, and exhibit 
him at the ale-house ingie, with his tippling 
cronies, you have delineated nature with a 
humour and rtaivi'te, that would do honour to 
Matthew Prior; but when jou describe the 
unfortunate orgies of the witches' sabbath, 
and the hellish scenery in which they are ex- 
hibited, you display a power of imagination, 
thai bhakspeare himself could not have ex- 
ceeded. I know not that 1 have ever met 
with a picture of mare horrible fancy than the 
following: 

• ' Coffins stood round like open presses. 
That showed the dead in their last dresses 
And by some devilish cantrip slight. 
Each in his cauld hand held a ligtii." 



• A knife a father's throat had maugled, 
VVh...r his aiu son of Vile bereft : 
2Vk; g-^y bairt yet stuck to iht MfL 



BV RXS. —LETTERS. 



1^7 



And bere, afl^r the two following lines, 
•' VVi mairo' horrible and awfu', "Sec. the de- 
scrpiive part might perhaps have been better 
closed, than the four lines which succeed, 
winch, though pood in themsebes, jet as they 
d-rive all their merit from the satire thej coa- 
liiin, are here rather misplaced among tfce cir- 
cumstances of pure horror. :*f The initiation 
ot the young witch is most happily described — 
tlie effect of her charms, exhibited 'n the 
dance, on Satau himself— the apostrophe — 
" Ah, little thought thy reverend grannie ! '* — 
the transport of Tam, who forgets his situation, 
and enters completely into the spirit of the 
scene, are all features of hi?h merit, in this 
excellent composition. The only fault it pos- 
sesses, is, that the winding up, or conclusion 
of the story, is not commensurate to the inter- 
est whicrh" is excited by the descriptive and 
characteristic painting of the preceding parts. 
— The preparation is line, but ihe resu t is not 
auequale. But for this, perhaps, you have a 
good apology— you stick to the popular tale. 

Aud now that I have got out my mind, and 
feel a little relieved of the weight of that debt 
1 owed y.iu, let me end this desultory scroll by 
an advice: — "Vou have proved your talent for 
a species of composition, in which but a very 
few of our own poets have succeeded — Go on 
- write more tales in the same style; you 
will eclipse Prior and La Fontaine ; for, with 
equal wit, equal power of numbers, and equal 
nairrte of expression, you have a bolder, and 
more Mgoroug imagination. 

I am, dear Sir, with much esteem. 
Yours, &c. 



No. CVIL 
TO A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 



N'othing less than the unfortunate accident I 
have met- with, could have prevented my 
grateful acknowledgments for your letter. His 
own favourite poem, and that an essay in a 
walk of the muses entirely new to him, where 
consequently his hopes and fears were in the 
most anxious alarm for his success in the at- 
tempt ; to have that poem so much applauded 
by one of the first judges, was the most delici- 
ous vibration that ever trilled along the heart- 
strings of a poor poet. However, providence, 
to keep up the proper proportion of evil with 
the good, which it seems is necessary in this 
sublunary state, thought proper to eheck my 
exultation by a very serious misfortune. A 
iay or two after I received your letter, my 
horse came down with me, and broke my right 
arm. As this is the first service my arm has 
done me since its disaster, I find myself unable 
to do more than just in general terms to thank 
you for this additional instance of your patron- 
age and friendship. As to the faults you 
detected in the piece, they are truly there : one 
>f them, the hit at the lawyer and priest, I 
shall cut out ; as to the failing off in the catas- 



justly adduce, it 
k our approbation, 
sir, has given me such additional spiriu ro 
persevere in this species of poetic composition, 
I that I am already revolving two or three siories 
j in my fancy. If I can bring these floating 
I ideas to bear any kind of embodied form, it 
j will give nie an additional opportunity of as- 
i soring you how much I have the hooouj' t9 
be, &C. 



No. CTIIL 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

EUisland, "Jth February, 1791. 
Vfhen I tell yon, madam, that by a fall, not 
from my horse, but with my horse, I have beeu 
a cripple some time, and that this is the first 
tlay luy arm and hand have been able to oerve 
me in writing; you will allow that it is too 
good an apology for my seemingly uiigrattiul 
siUnce. I am now getting better, and am r.ble 
to rhyme a little, which implies some tolerable 
ease : as I cannot think that the most poetic 
genius is able to compose on the rack. 

I do not remember if ever I mentioned to 
you my having an idea of composing an elegy 
on the late Miss Bnruet of Wonboddo. 1 had 
the honour of being pretty well acqnainttxi 
with her, and have seldom felt so much at the 
loss of an acquaintance, as when 1 heard that 
so amiable and accomplshed a piece of God's 
works was no more. 1 have as yet gone no 
farther than the following fragment, of which 
please let me have your opinion. You know 
that elegy is a subject so much exhausted, lliat 
any new idea on the business is not to be ei> 
pected ; 'tis well if we can place an old idea io 
a new light. How far I have succeeded as to 
this last, you will judge from what follows : — 

(Here follows the E'egy, fyc adding this verse.') 

The parent's heart ihat nestled fond in thee. 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and 



T have proceeded no further. 

Your kind letter, with your kind remem- 
brance of your god-son, came safe. This last, 
madam, is scarcely -wh.U my pride can bear. 
As to the little fellow, he is, partiality apart, 
the finest boy I have of a long time seen. Ha 
is now seventeen months old, has the small-pox 
and measles over, has cut several teeth, and 
yet never had a grain of doctor's drugs in hi« 

lam truly happy to hear that the "little 
floweret" is blooming so fresh and fair, and that 
the " mother nlant" is rather recovering her 
drooping head. Soon and well may her **crue! 
wounds" be healed: I have written thus far 
with a good deal of difficulty. When I get a 
little abler you shall hear farther from. 

Madam, yoargj &c. 



DlAilON'D CAJilNET LIBBABT. 



TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE, 

ACKNOWLBDGINQ A PRBSEXT OF A VALU- 
ABLE SNUFF-BOX, WITH A FINB PIC- 
TUBB OF UA&Y QVEBU OF SCOT£« OV TBK 
IiIX>> 

MT t ADT, 

Notliin^ less than the nnlaekf accideat of 
having latelj broken my right arm, could h&va 
prevented me, the moment I re%:eived jour 
ladyship's elegant present by Wrs Miller, from 
returning you my warmest and most gratetul 
ackijowledgments. I assure your ladyship, I 
BhalJ set it apart ; the symbols of religion shall 
only be more sacred. lu the moment of poetic 
composition, the box shall be my inspiring 
ceniufe When I wonld breathe the compre- 
hensive wish of benevolence for the happi 



MRS QRAIIAM OF FINTRY. 

MABAMt 

Whether it is that the story of our Wary 
Queen of Scott, has a peculiar eflFect on the 
feelings of a Doet, or whether I have, in th« 
inclosed ballaa, succeeded beyond my ui^ual 
poetic success, 1 know not : but it^has pleased 
me beyond any elfort of my muse for a good 
while past ; on that account 1 inclose it parti- 
cularly to you. It is true, the purity of my 
motives may be suspected. 1 am already 

deeply indebted to IVlr G 's goodness; 

and, what in the usual \Days of men, is of iuii- 
nilely greater importance, Mr G. can do me 
service of the utmost importance in time to 
come. I was born a poor dog ; and however 
I may occasionally pick a better bone than I 
used to do, 1 know 1 must live and die poor ; 
but I will indulge the flattering faiih that mj 
poetry will considerably outlive mj povtity ; 
and without any fustian aflVctation of spirit, 1 
can promise and affirm, that it must t* no or< 
dinary craving of the latter shall ever make me 
do any thing injurious to the honest fame of 
the former. Whatever may be my laihugs, 
for failings are a part of human nature, may 
they ever be those of a generous heart, and an 
inaependent mind! It is no fault of mine 
that I was boru to dependence ; nor is it >ir 
G 's chiefest praise that he can com- 
mand iutloeuce ; but it is his merit to bestow, 
bot only with the kindnees of a brother, but 
witti the politeness of a f eatleman ; and 1 
trust it shall be mine, to receive with ihank- 
fn loess, oxul reuember with aikdimiaished gra* 



FROM THE REV. G. BAIRD. 



BIB, Londamt^thF^iruarj,, il9\. 

I trouble ^on with this ]ett«r, to inform yoB 
that I am la hopes of bein^ able Terj soon to 
bring to the press a new edition (long since 
talked of) of Michad Bruce' t Poewut. Ihe 
prulitA of the editioa are to ^ to his mother — 
a womaa of eighty years of •§« — poor and 
helpless. The poems are to be published by 
I subscription ; and il may be possit)Ie, 1 think, 
{ to uiake out a 2s. tiJ. or'Ss. volume, with the 
assistance of a f«w hitherto unpublished rerse^ 
which 1 have got irem the mother of th.\ 
poet. 

But the design I have io Tiew in writing t» 
you, is, not merely to inform yoo of these facts, 
it is to solicit the aid of your name and pen in 
support of the scheme. The reputation of 
Bruce is already high with every reader of 
classical taste, and i shall be anxious to guard 
rgajnst tarnishing his character, by allowing 
any new poems to appear that may lower it. 
For this purpose, the iVlSS. I am in possesaioa 
of, have been submitted to the revisiun of some 
wboi.e critical talents I can trust to, and I 
mean still to submit them to others. 

May 1 beg to know, therefore, if you will 
take the trouble of perusing the MSS.— of 
giving your opinion, and snggestiug what cur> 
tailmeuts, alterations, or amendments, occur 
to ;ou as advisable i And will jou allow us 
to let it be known, that a few lines by you will 
be added to the volume ? 

I know the extent of this request. — It is 
bold to make it. But 1 have tliis consolation, 
that though you see it proper to refuse, you 
will not blame me for having made it ; you 
will bee my apology in the motixx. 

May I just add, that Michael Bruce is one 
in whose company, from his past appearance, 
you would not, 1 am convinced, blush to be 
louud ; and as I would submit evtrj line of 
his that should now be published, to your own 
criticisms, joi: wi-uld be assured th.it nothing 
derogatory either to him or you, would be ad- 
uiiiied in that appearance he may make in 
future. 

^'ou have already paid an honourable tri- 
bute to kiudred genius in Ferpu»!,on — 1 fondly 
hope that tb<; mother of Bruce will experience 






;^avet 



the Bubscriptbn papers cir- 
ated by the 14th of March, Bruce 's birth- 
Qay i which, 1 understand, some friends in 
Scotland talk this j ear of observing— at that 
time it will be resolved, I imagine, to plaoe a 
plain, humble stone over his grave. This, at 
leobt, I trust you will agree to do — to furnish, 
in a few couplets, aa maariplioti for it. 

On those points may 1 solicit an answer as 
early as possible; a short delay might disap- 
point us in procuring that relief to the mother, 
which is the object o£ the whole. 

You will be pleased to aadress for me under 
cover, to the Duke of Athoie, London. 

P. S, — Have yoo ever seen an engraving 
published hcru siHue time a^ from uue uf 
jour poems, "O Wow pck« Orti." UjroHf>a\£ 



BURKS — LETTEKS. 



1S(» 



not, I Aftll have the pleasure of ending it to 
|oa. 



TO THE REV. G. R^RD* 

IN AK8WKB TO THB yORBOOIWG. 

Whr did jon, my dear sir, write to me in such 
a /lesitating style, on the business of poor 
Bruce t Don 't I know, and have I not felt, 
the many ill*, th» peculiar ills that poetic tiesh 
is heir to t You •noli have your choice of all 
the unpublished poem* I have ; and had your 
letter had my directiou bo as to have reached 
me aooner (it only came to my haud this uio- 
meut), 1 »honld have directly put you out of 
tttipense on the subject. 1 only ask, that 
•ome prefatory advertisement, in the book, as 
well as ihe subscription bills, may bear, thia 
the publication it solely for tbu beueht of 
Brace's mother. 1 would cot put it iu the 
power of iguoranc* to surmise, or malice to 
insinuate, that i clubbed a share in the work 
for mercenary motives. Nor need jou give 
me creoit for any remarkable generosity in my 
pan of the business. 1 have such a host of 
peccadilloes, failings, follies, and backslidiugs 
(any body but myself might perhaps give some 
of them it v%ors« appellation), that by way of 
6om<' bs>ance, however tritiin^, in the accouut, 
1 am taui lo do any good that occurs in my 
VCTj limited power to a fellow-creature, just 
for the stfiHsb purpose of clearing a little the 
Tiata of reuospectioiu 



No. cxm. 
TO DR aioorg;. 

EUUIani, 2Sih Febrwtry, 1791. 
I do not know, sir, whether yon are a sub- 
kcriber to Grose 'a Atiiufuities of Scotland. If 
you urr, the inclosed poem will not be altoge- 
ther new to yoik Captain Grose did me the 
favour Ui send me a dozen copies of the proof- 
sheet, of which this is one. Should you hav« 
read tlie piece before, still this will answtr 
the pr iicipal end I have in yiew : it will gi-ve 
me another opportunity of thanking you for 
all your goodness to the riutic bard ; and also 
of showing you, that the abilities yon have 
been pleased to commend and patroniae are 
etill employed in the way yon wish. 

The Elef;y on Captain Henderson, is a tribute 
to memory of a man I lored much. Poata 
have in this the same advantage as RMnan 
Catholicij : they can be of service to their 
bisiidb aftkr ihey have p«i<t that bourne where 
uli uinet kindne^ ceoies to be «f any avail. 
V'>»ti.tir, afbtf all, either thb one or the oth«r 
tm vjf aiiy r*al service lo the detul, is, I fear, 
vori yrobioinatical ; but 1 am sore they tire 
L«i.)> f^autyiof io Uua j\ttMg t and as a very 
•MtittxiiMi text, I forget wtjer* in Scripture, 
!>»yh, " wlitUtioevet is uwi of faitli, lodini" 
to any 1, wlwlaotsitei m luH u<.;ilui<:uiai w na- 



eiety, and is of positive enjoyment, is of God, 
the giver of ail good things, and ought to be 
received and enjoyed by his creatures ivith 
thankful delight. As almost all my religious 
teneU originate from my heart, I am woadcr- 
fnlly pleased with the idea, that I can still 
keep up a tender intercourse \»itb the dearly 
beloved friend, or still more dearly beloved 
mistress, who is gone to the world of spirits. 

I'he ballad on t^neen Ulary was begun while 
I was busy with Percy's Reliquet of Eiiglieh 
Poetry, By the way, how much is every 
honest heart, which has a tincture of Caledo- 
prejudice, obliged to you for vour glorious 
story of Buchanan and Targe. "Twas an uu- 
e^uivocaJ proof of your loyal gallantry of soul, 
giviug large the victory. I should have been 
munihed to the ground if you had not. 

I have just read over, once more, of many 
times, your Zeiuco. I marked with my pencil, 
as 1 went along, every passage that pleased 
me particularly above the rest; and one, or 
two, I tbiuk, which, with humble deference, 
1 am disposed to think unequal to the merits of 
the book. I hare sometimes thought to tran- 
scribe these marked passages, or at least so 
much of them as to poiut where they are, and 
stud them to you. Original strokes that strong- 
ly depict the human heart, is yonr and Field-, 
ing's province, beyond any other novelist I 
have ever perused. Richardson indeed might 
perhaps he excepted; but, unhappily, hia 
dj^inatU jiersoiiLe aie beings of some other 
world; and however ihey uiay captivate the 
nneiperitnced, romantic fancy of a boy or a 
giri, they will ever, in proportion as we have 
made human naiure our study, dissatisfy our 

As to my private concerns, I am going on, 
a tt.ighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and 
have lately had the interest to get myself rank- 
ed on the liit of excise as a supervisor. I am 
not yet employed as such, but iu a few vean. I 
shall fall into the hie of supervisorsLip by 
seniority. Ihave had on immeniie loss in the 
death of the Earl cf Giencairn ; the patron 
from whom all my fame and good fortune took 
its rise. Independent of my grateful attach- 
ment to him, which was indeed so strong that 
it pervaded my very soul, and was entwined 
with the thread of my existence ; so soon as 
the prince's friends had got in (and every dog, 
you know, has his day), my getting forward 
in the excise would have been an easier busi- 
ness than otherwise it will be. Though thia 
was a coiuummation devoutly to be wished, yet, 
thank Heaven, I can live and rhyme as I am ; 
and bs to ray boys, poor little fellows ! if I 
cannot place them on as high on elevation iu 
life as I could wish, I shall, if I am favoured 
so much of the Disposer c^ events u to seo 
that period, fix them on as broad and ind pen- 
dent a basis as possible. Among ths tnany 
wise adagee which have been treasured up by 
our Scottish ancestors, this is one at' the best. 
Better be the head, of the commowtluy, oitheUiti 
o' tilt gentry. 

But I am got on a subject, whicfi, however 
interesting to nr^e, is of no mauner of cense- 
quou»i« to yon ; so I shall rive you a short 
j pot-m on the other page, and cius* ttm »:tti 
I a^sunr^g yua t9w siiui«rel] I hi-ve the bwwHif 



DIAMOND CABLNET LIBRARY. 



"Written on the blank leaf of a book, whicl) I 
presented to a very young lady, whom I bad 
formerlv characterised under the denuuiiuaiioa 
of 2V«; 'Ro>e-bud. 



No. CXIV. 
FROM DB MOORE. 

DEAR SIR, London, 29;hMai-eh, 17S1. 
YoDF letter of the 2Sth of February I received 
only two days a°:o, and thi^ da> I bad the 
pleasure of waiting on the Rev. Mr Baird, at 
the Duke of Athole's, who had been so oblig- 
ing as to transmit it to me, with the printed 
■verses ou AUoway Chiirc/i, the Elegy on CapL 
Henderson, and the Epi-apk, There are mauy 
poetical beauties in the former: what I parti- 
cularly admire are the three striking similes 
from 

•• Or like the snow falls in the river, " 

<aad the eight lines which begin with 

*■ By this time he was cross the ford ; " 

«o exquisitely expressive of the superstitiocs 
iDipre>sions of the country. And the twenty- 
tno lines from 

** Coffins stood round like open presses, ' 

which, in my opinion, are equal to the ingie- 
di-ais of Shakspeare's cauldron ii; Macbeth,. 

As for the Eiegy, the chit^f merit of it con- 
eists in the very graphical description of iheob- 
jejls belonging to the country in vshich the poet 
wites, and which none but a Scottish poet 
could bave described, and none but n real poet, 
and a close observer of Nature, could have so 
described. 

There is something original, and to me won- 
•derfully pleasing, in the Epilapk. 

I remember you once hinted before, what 
you repeat in \our last, '.hat you had made 
«ome remarks on Zeluco, on the margin. I 
should be very glad to see them, and regret you 
<i:d not send ihem before the last ediriou, which 
is just published. Pray transcr.be them for 
nie, sincerely I value your opinion very hiirbly, 
and pray do not suppress one of those m which 
you censure the sentiment or expression. 
Trust ine it will break no squares between us — 
I am not akin to the Bishop of Grenada. 

1 must now mention what has been on my 
mind for some time : I cannot help thinking 
you imprudent in scattering abroad so many 
copies of ;our verses. I: is most natural to 
give a few to confidential friends, particularly 
to those who are connected with the subject, or 
who are perhaps themselves the subject, but 
this ought to be done under promise not to give 
other copies. Of the poem you sent me on 
^ueen Wary, I refused every solicitation for 
copies, but I lately saw it in a newspaper. 
Bly motive for cautioning you on this subject is, 
tfcat I wish to engage you to collect ail your 
fngitire pieces, not already printed, and after 
thej bare been reconsidered, and polished t;; 



I 



|l 



the utmost of your power, I would have yoa 
publish tbem by another subscription ; in pro- 
moting of which I will exert myself with plea- 

In your future compositions, I wish you 
would use the modern English. You ha»e 
shown your powers in Scottish sofficiently. 
Although in certain subjects it gives additioua 
zest to the humour, >et it is lost to the Eng- 
lish ; and why should you write only for a part 
of ihe island, when yuu can conimaud the ad- 
miration of the who;e. 

If you chance lo write to my friend Mrs Dun- 
lop of Dunlop, I beg to be affectionately re- 
membered to her. She must not judge of tha 
warmth of my sentiments respecting her, by 
toe number of my letters ; I hardly ever write a 
line but on Lnsiness: and I do not know that I 
should have scribbled ail this to you, but for 
the business part, that is, to instigate yon to a 
new publication ; and to tell \ou that when vom 
think you have a sufficient number to make a 
volume, you should set your friends on getliag 
subscriptions. I wish I could have a few 
hours' conversation with you — I have many 
things to say which I cannot write. If I ever 
go to Scotland, I will let you know, that you 
may meet me at your own house, or my friend 
ilrs Hamilton's, or both. 

Adieu, my dear Sir, &c. 



TO THE REV. ARCHD. ALISON. 
EllUland, near Dumfries, UthFeb. 1791. 

SIR, 

You must, by this time, have set me down as ' 

one of the most ungrateful of men. You did me J 

the honour to present me with a book which 
does honour to science and the intellectual 
powers of man, and I have not even so much 
as acknowledged the receipt of it. The fact is, 
you yourself are to blame for it. Flattered as I 
was by your telling me that you wished to have 
my opinion of the work, the old spiritual ene- 
my of mankind, who knows well that vanity is 
one of the sins that most easily beset me, put 
it into my head to ponder over the performance 
with the look-out of a critic, and to draw up 
forsooth a deep learned digest of strictures on 
a composition, of which, in fact, until I read 
the book, I did not even know the first prin- 
ciples. I own, sir, that at first glance, several 
rfyour propositions startled me as paradoxical. 
That the martial clangor of a trumpet had 
sonieihing in it vastly more grand, heroic, and 
sublime, than the twinkle iwangle of a jews- 
harp ; that the delicate flexure of a rose-twig, 
v.hen 'he half-blown flower is heavy with the 
tears of the dawn, was infinitely more beantifuJ 
and elegant than the upright stub of a burdock; 
and that from something innate and indepen- 
dent of all association of ideas; — these I bad 
set down as irrefragable, orthodox truths, until 
perusing your book shook my faiih. In short, 
sir, except Euclid's Elements of Gtoirjeiry, 



BURXS LEITERS. 



141 



io<R I held (he p1ou:rh, I never read a book 
which Ruve Diesurh aijuanlum of information, 
and added go much to my stock of ideas as 
yonr •• Essays rni the Principles of Taste." 
One thing, sir, you must foc^ive my mention- 

the lancrua^e. To clcthe abstract philosophy 
in elegance of style, sounds something' like a 
contradiction in terms ; but you have convinced 
me that they are quite compatible. 

' ---ilose you some pontic baoratelles of my 



late composi 



Tbe*^ 



eesaj iu the way of telling a tale, 



is my li 
1, Sir, &c. 



No. CXVT. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

32/A March, 1791. 
If the foregoin? piece be worth your strictures, 
let me have them. For my own part, a thing 
that I have just composed, always appears 
through a double portion of that par ial meoium 
in which an author will ever view his own 
work<. I believe, in general, novelty has 
something in it that inebriates the fancy, and 
not unfreqiiently dissipates and fumes away like 
other intoxication, and leaves the poor p lient, 
as us'ial, with an aching heart. A striking in- 
stance of this might be adduced, in the revolu- 
tion of many a hymeneal hon-ymoon. But lest 
I sink into stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously 
intrude OB the office of my parish priest, I shall 
fill up the page in my own way, and give you 
another song of my iaie composition, which 
will appear, perhaps, in Johnson's work, as 
well as the former. 

Vou mu5t k ow a beautiful Jacobite air. 
Therein never be peace ti'l Jamie comes hame. 
When coliiical combustion ceases to be ihe ob- 



And as he was singing, the tears fast down 

came — 
There'll never be peace tdl Jamie comes hame. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars. 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; 
TVe dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to 

blame- 
There "11 never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

M> seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword. 
And now I greet round their green beds in the 

It brack the sweet heait o' my faithfn' auld 



Now life is a burden that boi 
Sm' 1 tmt my bairns, and h( 
But 'till my last moment my words 

Ttere'U never be peace till Jamie corns 



If yon like the air. and if the stanzas hit 
your fancy, your canr-o imagine, my dear 
friend, how much you would oblige me, if, by 
the charms of your delightful voice, you would 
give my honest effusion to " the memory of 
joys that are past, " to the few friends whom 
you indulge in that pleasure. But I have 
scribbled on till I hear the clock has intimated 
the near approach of 
"That hour o' night's black arch the key. 

So good-night to you ! Sound be your slepp 
and de'ect ible yoi:r dreams ! Apropos, how do 
you like ihis thought in a ballad, I have just 
now ou the tapis ? 
I look to the west, when I gae to rest. 

That happy my dreams and my slumber* 
mav'be: 



e more, and God bless you I 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 

Ellishiid, IVJi April, 1791. 
I am once more able, my honoured friend, (o 
return you, with my own hand, thanks for the 
many in tancus of your frieudship, and particu- 
larly fur your kind anxiety in this last disaster 
that my evil genius had in store for me. How- 
ever, life is cl'.equered- jov and sorrow — fur on 
Saturday morning last, .Mrs Burns made me a 
present of a fine boy ; rather stouter but not so 
handsome as your god-son was at his lime 
of life. Indeed I lock on your little namesake to 
be my chef (i'miiTe in that specie- of nianu 
facture, as 1 look on Tom o' S/iaufcr to be uiy 
standard performance in the poetical line. 
'Tis true, both the one and the other discover 
a spice of ro;iuish waggery, that might, per- 
haps, be as well spared ; but tben (hey ell so 
show, in my opinion, a force of genius, and a 
finishing polish, that I despair of ever excell- 
ing. IVJrs Burns is ge'ting stout again, and 
laid as lustily about her to-day at breakfast, as 
a reaper from the corn -ridge. That is the pe- 
culiar privilege and blfssing of our lisle, 
sprightly damsels, t^ at are bred among iha 
hay and he-aiher. Vie cannot hope for that 
highly polished mind, that charming delicacy 
of soul, which is found among the female 
world in the more elevated stations of life, and 
which is certainly by far the most bewitching 
charm in the famous cestus of Venus. It is 
indeed such an inestimable trpasnre, that 
where it can be had in its native heavenly puri- 
ty, unstained by some one or other of the niun- 
ly -hades of aflectation, an i unalloyed by soma 
other of the n 



declare to He 
purchased a 
ly good! Bu 
afraid, extrer 
of life, and i 

with thenrxi' 






luy spec 

lely rare in" any station and raik 
r>taUy denied to such a humble 
we meaner mortals must put up 
rank of femah- excellence — as Sn« 



i rustic, 



:e as any rank 
5 grace j nn»f- 



U9 



DUMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



fscted nipdo»ty, ai-.d cns\jlli«l puritj } nature'* 
motlier-wiL, ano (at- rutitOieiiU of taE(«t a 
aitrulicitv of «oul, nusaspieioui of, becans* 
nuHcquai'uie<J with, tb« crooked ways of a 
B<>itish, intert^i-^, disiu^eauoaa world: — 
aiid tho deareti cbanu of all the rest, a field- 
ing sweeiaes* of disposition, and a generous 
wormih of heart, grateful for Jove on onr part, 
and araeotl; glowiog with a mere than eqaal 
recura i tbeea, with a health; frame, a sonnd 
vigorana eotutitatioa, which jour high ranks 
eon aearcAly rrer kspe t» •djo>, ar« tha rharms 
nf lovely womaa in my humbU walk «f lif*. 

Tbia ii the greatest efiort my brokao arm has 
f At mad*. D«, let me bear by first poet, bow 
tA»r peat M»nsiettr coine« oa with hia small- 
pox. Jtiay AlBiifhty Ooodaeaa presarra fioi 
tmton him I 



TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

i\thJiine, 1791. 
Let ma Interest yo«, my dear Cuonin*;bnrn, in 
fcehaif of the gentleman who waits ou you with 
this. He i« a Wr Clarke of iViottal. principal 
•choolmaster there, ana is at present suD'eriiig 

eCTerely under the of one or two 

powerfill iudiridnals of his employers. He is 
accused of harshness to ... . that nere 
placed under his care. God help the teacher, 
if a man of sensibility and genius, and such is 
my friend Clarke, when a bouby father pre 
sents him with his booby soa, and Insists en 
lighting up the rays of suieuce, in a fellow 's 
head, whose skull is impervious and inaccess- 
ible by any other way than a positive fracture 
with a cudgel : a fellow whom, in fact, it sa- 
vours of impiety to attempt making a scholar 
of, as he has been marked a blockhead in the 
book of tate, at the almighty hat of his 
Creator. 

The patrons of RIoflat school are, the minis- 
ters, ma^iiirates, ana town-council of Kdin- 
burgh, and as the business comes now before 
them, lei me beg- my dearest trieiid to do every 
thing !D bis power to serve the intere-.f.> of a 
man of »?eiMUa and worth, and a man whom I 
Darticularly respect and esteem. You know 
some g4XKl iellows among the magistracy and 

conucil but par- 

ticclarty. yon have much to say with a reve- 
read ^-^niieoian to wtmin yon have the b<jiiuur 
of beiit^ «ery nearly related, and whom tbis 
country imd age have had the honour to pro- 
duce. 1 need not name th» historiftn of 
Chorlea V.* I tell biro, through the. mediom 
of hiH uepbevr's mduence, that Air Ciarko is a 
gentietuAu who will not disgrace even his pa- 
tronage. 1 know (he luerus oi the cans* 
thoroughly, and say it, that my friend is fall- 
ing a sucriiice to pr«jndiced ignorance, and 

Gitri hulp the chiiareu of de- 

pendenoe J Hfttod ajwl persecuted by their ene- 
in.ea, uud too often, aiaa I almost unexceptiotv- 
ably, rfcwvwi by their friends witn disrespect 
ana reproach, uoder tbu thm disguise of oold 



civility and hnmilinting advice. O to ^fl a 
sturdy savage, stalking in tiie prijn of hi« it}, 
dependence, amid the solitary wild? of his des- 
erts, rather than in civilized life, helplessly to 
tremble for a subsistence, precarious as the ca- 
price of a fellow-rreature! Every man han hia 
virtups, and no man is without his failings ; 
and curse on that privileged plain-dealing of 
friendship, which in the honr of my calamity, 
cannot reach forth the helping hand without "at 
the sama time pointing out tho«^ failings, and 
apportioning them their share iu pri-curing my 
present distress. My friends, for such the 
world eoils ye, and such ye think yourselves lo 
be, pass by virtues if you please, but do, also, 
spars my follies : the hrst will witness in my 
breast tor themselves, and the last will give 
pain enough to the ingenuous mind without 
you- And since deviating more or less troin 
the paths of propriety and rectitude, must b* 
incident to human nature, do thou, fortune, 
put it in my power, always from myself, and 
of myself, to bear the consequences of tbose 
error*. I do not want to be independent that 
1 may sin, but 1 want to be independent ui my 

io return in this rambling letter to the sub- 
ject 1 set out with, let me recommend my 
friend, .^ir Clarke, to your acquaintance and 
goodolhces ; his worth entitles him to theoue, 
and his gratitude will merit the other. 1 
long much to hear from yoiu Adieu. 



* Dr Robertion wm uncle to Mr Cunninghai 



FR031 THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

Drybiirgh Abbey, llth-June, 1791. 
Lord Bucban has the pleasure to in>jte -Mr 
Burns to make one at the coronation oi the 
bust of Ihomson, on Ednam Hill, on the 22d 
of September ; for which day perhaps bis muse 
may inspire an ode suited to the ociasiou. 
Suppose Mr Burns should, leaving the Nitb, 
go across the country, and meet the Tweed at 
the nearest point from his farm — and, wan- 
dering along the pastoral banks of Thomson's 
pure parent stream, catch inspiration on the 
devious walk, till he finds Lord Huchan sitting 
on the ruins of Dryburgh. Ihere the c— - 
mendator will give him a hearty welcome, ana 
try to light his lamp at the pure flame of native 
genius, upon the altar of Caledonian virtue. 
i bi9 jjoetical perambulation of the Tweed, is a 
thougiii o! the laie .>^ir Ciilbert Elliot's and of 
Loid Minio's, followed out by his accomplish- 
ed grandson, tht present Sur Gilbert, wbi., 
having been with Lord Buchan lately, the 
project was renewed, and will, they hope, b» 
executed in the mauner proposed. 



No. CXX 
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

MT LORD, 

Language sinks nnder the ardour of my feel- 
ings, when I would thank your lordship for 



BURNS.^LETTERS. 



Tbomitoa. In ra_» tirst eothusiasm in reading 
the card you did rae the hoaoar to write me, I 
CTerlooked ererj' obstacle, and d>>termined to 
go s but 1 fear it will not be in my power. A 
■week or two's absence, in the vfry middle of 
vaj faartrest, is ^¥hat, I much doubt, I dare not 
ventnre on. 

Your lordahip hints at an ode forthe occa- 
■ion : but who would write after Collins ? I 
read o»er his Terses to the memory of Thomson, 
and despaired. — I {jot indeed to the lenjrth of 
three or four stanzas, in the way of address to 
th« shade of the bard, on crowning his bust. 
1 shall trouble your lordship with the subjoined 
copy of them, which, I am afraid, will be but 
loo convincing a. proof how uueqoial I am to the 
task. However, it aflords me an opportunity 
of approaching your lordship, and declaring 
how sincerely and gratefully I have the hoaoui 
to bt, &C. 



No. CXXL 

FROM THE SAME. 

Dryburgh AObey, 19th September, 1791. 

Your address to the shade of Thomson has been 
well received by the public : and thongh I 
should disapprove of your allowing Pegasus to 
ride with you off the field of your bonoarable 
and useful profession, yet I caaaot resist an 
impulse which 1 feel at this momtDt to suggest 
to your muse. Harvest Home, aa an excellent 
subject for her grateful song, in Trhich the 
peculiar aspect and manners of oru country 
might famish an excellent portrait and land- 
scape of Scotland, for the employment of 
happy moments of leisnre and recess, from 
your more important occupations. 

Your HaUrttroen, and Saturdai/ Night, -will 
remain to distant posterity as interesting pic- 
tures of rural innocence end happiness in your 
Dative country, and were happily written in 
the dialect of the people ; but Ha^-vest Home 
being suited to descriptive poetry, except 
where colloquial, may escape the disguise ot a 
dialect whictt admits of no elegance or dignity 
of expression. Without the assistance of any 
god or goddess, and without the invocation of 
any foreign muse, yon may convey in epistolary 
form the description of a scene so gladdening 
and picturesque, with all the concomitant 
local position, landscape, and costume ; con- 
trasting the peace, improvement, and happiness 
of the borders of the once hostile naiions of 
Britain, with their former oppression and 
misery, and i<bowing, ia Hvely and beautiful 
eoloara, the beauties and Joys of a niral life. 
And as the nnvitiated heart is naturally dis- 
posed to overflow in gratitude in the moment 
of piosperity, such tt subject woald furnish yon 
with an amiable opportunity of perpetuating 
the names of Glencairn, Miller, and your other 
eminent benefactors; which, from what I 
know of Tour »yirit, and have seen of your 
poems and letter*, srili uot deviate from the 



No. CXXIL 
TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM. 



f would, as usual, have availed ujysiilf of the 
privilege your goodness has allowed me, ot 
sfiiding you any thing I compose in my poeti- 
cal way ; but as I had resolved, so soon as tho 
shock of my irreparable lots would allow me, 
to pay a tribute to my late benefactor, I deter- 
mined to make thai the first piece I should do 
myself the honour of sending you. Had tho 
wing of my fancy been equal to the ardour of 
my heart, the in.-toeed had been much mora 
worthy your peTU«nl ; as it is, I beg leave to 
lay it at your laayship't feet. As all the 
v«'orld knows my obligations to the late Earl of 
Gleucairn, I would wish to show as openly 
that -ny heart glows, and shall ever glow, 
with the most ^*teful sense and remembranc« 
of his lordship s goodness. The sables i did 
Bij»elf the honour to wear to his lordship 't 
memory, were not the *• mockery of woe. " 
Mor shiil my grs-titude perish witn me :— If, 
ftroong my children, I shall have a sou that 
has a heart, he shall hand it down to tis abild 
as a family honour, and a family debt, th^t ray 
dearest existence 1 owe to the uohle house ot 
Glencajra ! 

I was about to say, my lady, that if you 
think the poem may venture to see the light, I 
would, in some way or other, giv« it to the 
world.* 



No. CXXIIL 
TO MR AINSLIE. 

MY DRAB AIN8UK, 

Can yon minister to a mind diseased T Can 
you, amid the horrors of penitence, regret, 
remorse, head-ache, nausea, and all the rest 

of the hounds of bell, that beset a poor 

wretch, who has been guilty of (he sin of 
drunkenness — can yon speak peace to a 
troubled soul ? 

Miserable perdu that 1 am, I have tried every 
thing that used to amuse mt, but in vain t here 
must I sit a monument of the vengeance laid 
up in store 'or the wicked, slowly counting 
every CDict of the clock as it slowly — slowly 
numbers over these lazy scoundrels of hours, 

who. them, are ranked up before me,every 

one at his neighbour's backside, and every 
one with a burthen of anguish on his back to 
pour on my devoted head — and there is none to 
pity me. My wife scolds me! my businea 

* T!ip poem incloKPd. is The LamotU Jvr 
Janieb, Karl oj ti^7»to«m. 



niA.MOM) CABINET LIBRARY. 



twmenis me, ana my sins oouie staring me in 
the face, every one telling a more bitter tale 

than his fellow VVTien 1 tell jou even . . . 

i lost its power to please, you wiil guess 

nn-of ,•■••■ • ■' 

I began 

stanza feU unenjoyed aad nnlipished froih my 
listless tcngue; at last I luckily thought of 
reading over an old letter of yours, that Uy by 
me in my book-caKe, and I telt soniethiug for I 
the first time since 1 opened niv eyes, of plea- 
surable existence. Well_I begin 

breathe a little, since I began to write yt 
How are you, and what are you doing ? Hi 
goes law 'i Apropos, for connection's sak*, 
not address to me supervisor, for that is 
honour I cannot pretend to — I am on the li 
as we call it, for a supervisor, and will be ca 
ed out by and bye to act one ; but at presei 
I am a simple ganger, tho' t'other day I got 
an appuintment to an excise division of L.25 
per ajiiu better than the rest. iWy present 
come, down money, is L. 70 pel- aim. 

o good fellows here whom 



whence I am just returned. Yonr letter wat 
forwarded to me (here fixini £dinbargb» whtre, 
1 observed by the dale, it had lain for s< 



This 



1. for t 



JOU would be glac 



FROM SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 
Avar Moybolc, 16fA October, 1791. 



Accept of my thanks for your favour with the 
Liimtid on "the death of' my much esteemed 
frienil, and v<"r wortln patron, the p-iusal of 
which j.leasKi and afiected rae much. 'Ihe 

1 have always th.ught it' most natural to 
suppose, (, nd a siioiig argument in I'avour of 
a future existence), that when we see an hon- 
ourable and virtuous man labouring under 
bodily infirmities, and oppressed by the frowns 
of fortune in this world, that there was a hap- 
pier state beyond the grave ; where that worth 
ai.d honour which were neglected here, would 
meet with their just reward, and where tem- 
poral misfortunes would receive an eternal re- 
compense. Let us cherish this hope for our 
departeu friend ; and moderate our grief for 
thdt loss we ha\e sustained ; knowiiig that he 
"annot return to us, but we may go to hmi. 

Remember me to your wife, and with every 
good wish for the prosperity of you and your 
family, believe me, at all times. 

Your most nncere friend, 

JOHN WHITEFOORD. 



No. CXXV 
FROM A. F. TYTLER, ESQ. 

Edinburgh, 27th Nov. 17S1. 
You have much reason to blame me for neglect- 
inj: till now to acknowledge the receipt of a 
most asreeable packet, containing I'hcWhistle, 
a ballad; and Tlw Lament; which reached 
me at-out sis weeki ago in London, fioBO 



days. 

to have answered :t immediately on receiving 
it ; but the truth was, the bustle of business, 
engagements and confusion of one kind or an- 
other, iu which I found myself immersed all 
the lime I was in London, absolutely put it 
out of my power. But to have done with apo- 
logies, let ine now endeavour to prove myself 
in some degree deserving of the very flattering 
compliment you pay me, by giving you at least 
a frank and caiiaid, if it should not be a judi- 
cious criticism on the poems j on sent me. 

The ballad of The Whistle is, in my opinion, 
truly excellent. The old tradition which you 
taken up is the best adapted for a Baccha- 






y 1 hut 



vith, 



and you have done it full justice. In the first 
place, the strokes of wit arise naturally from 
the subject, and are uncommonly happy. For 
exiimple, — 

'« The bands grew the tighter the more thej 



' ♦ Tho' Fate said a hero should perish in light, 
tw up rose bright Fhcebus and down fell 
thekuight." 

In the next place, you are singularly happy 'n 
the discrimination of your heroes, and in giving 
each ihe sentiments and language suitable to 
liis character. And, lasiiy, you have much 
meri' in the delicacy of the panegyric which 
you have contrived to throw on each of the 
(iramctis persona:, perfectly appropriate to his 
character. The compliment to Sir Robert, the 
blunt soldier, is peculiarly fine. In short, this 
cnmpusiiion, iu my opinion, does yon great 
honour, and I see not a line or a word in it 
which I could wish to be altered. 

As to I'he Lament, I suspect, from some 
expressions in your letter to nie, that you are 
more doubtful with respect to Ihe merits of 
this piece than of the other, and I own I think 
you have reason ; for although it contains 
s(.me beautiful stanzas, as the first, "The wind ■ 
blew hollow," &c. the lifth, " Ye scatter'dj 
birds -." the tb^rteeuih, " Awake thy last saMM 
voice," &C. yet it appears to me faulty as ^H 
whole, ahd inferior to several of those yoafl 
have already published in the same strain. My 
principal objection lies against the plan of the 
piece. 1 think it \\as unnecessary a.-.u impro- 
per to put the lanieniation in the mouth of a 
' Mitiiius character, an a^edbard. —It had been 
uch Letter to have lamented your patron in 
)iir own person, to have expressed your 
>nuine feelings for his loss, and to have 
loken the laniruage of nature rather than that 
of fiction on the subject. Compare this with 
poem of the same title in your printed 
volume, which begins, O that, pale Orb 1 and 
observe what it is that forms the charm of that 
composition. It is that it speaks the language 
oi truth and of Tialure. The change is, in nijr 
opinion, injudicious too in this respect, that an 
aged bard has much less need of a patron and 
protcclyr than a i/cung me. I have ihnsgivtP 



URNS.—LETl'ERS. 



•on» with much freedom, my opinion of both 
die pieces. I should ha\e made a very ill re- 
tiira to the compliment you paid me, if I had 
pfven jou any other than my genuine senti- 

It will give me great pleasure to hear from 
you when you tind leisure, and I beg jou will 
beiitve me ever, dear sir, yours, &c. 



TO MISS DAVIES. 

It is impossible, madam, that the generous 
warmth arid argelic purity of your youthful 
mind, can have any idea of that moral disease 
under which I unhappily must rank as the 
chief of sinners ; i mean a torpitude of the moral 
powers that may be called, a lethargy of con- 
science. — In vain remorse rears her horrent 
crest, and rouses all her snakes ; beneath the 
deadly fixed eye and leaden hand of indolence, 
their wildest ire is charmed into the torpor of 
the bat, slumbering out the rigours of winter 
in the chink of a ruined wall. I^othing less, 
madam, could have made me so long neglect 
your obliging commands. Indeed I had one 
apology— the bagatelle was not worth preser.t- 
11^. Besides, so strongly am I interested in 

Miss D 's fate and welfare in the serious 

business of life, amid its chances and changes, 
that to make her the subject of a silly ballad, 
is downright mockery of these ardent feel- 
ings ; 'tis like an impertinent jest to a dying 
friend. 

Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity be- 
tween our -wishes ani our powers ? Wiiv is 
the most generous wish to make others blest, 
impotent and iiiefl'ectual— as the idle breeze 
that crosses the palhiess desert ? In my walks 
of life 1 have met with a few people to whom 
how gladly would 1 have said — " Go, be hap- 
py ! I know that your hearts have been 
wounded by the scorn of the proud, whom ac- 
cident has placed above you — or worse still, in 
whose hand are, perhaps, placed many of the 
comforts of your life. But there ! ascend that 
rock. Independence, and look justly down on 
their littleness of soul. AJake the worthless 
tremble under your indignation, and the fool- 
ish sink before your contempt ; and largely im- 
part that happiness to others, which, I am 
certain, will give yourselves so much pleasure 
to bestow 1 " 

Why, dear madam, must I wake from this 
delightful reverie, and hnd it all a dream ? 
Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must I 
nnd myself poor and powerless, incapable of 
-wiping one tear from the eye of pity, or of ad- 
ding one comfort to the iriend 1 love ! — Out 
upon the world I say I, that its affairs are ad- 
ministered so ill I They talk of reform 1— good 
Heaven ! what a reform would I make among 
the sons, and even the daughters of men J — 
Down, immediately, should go fools from the 
hitrh places where misbegotten chance has 
perked them up, and through life should they 
bkulk, ever haunted by their native iiisignih- 
cauce, as the body marches accompanied by 
its shadow. As for a much more formidable 
Class, the knaves,! am at a loss what to do with 



them. Uad I a world, there should not be a 



But the hand that conld give I would libe- 
rally fill ; and I would pour delight on the 
heart that could kindly forgive, and generously 
love. 

Still the inequalities of this life are, among 
men, comparatively tolerable — but there is a 
delicacy, a tenderness, accompanying every 
view in which we can place lovely >Voman, 
that are grated and shocked at the rude, capri- 
cious distinctions of fortune. Woman is the 
blood-royal of life : let there be slight degrees 
of precedency among them — but let them be all 
sacred. U hether this last sentiment be right 
or wrong, I am not accountable ; it is an origi- 
nal component feature of my mind. 



No. CXXVIL 

TO MRS UUNLOP. 

Ellisland, \7lh December, 1781. 
Many thanks to you, madam, for your good 
news respecting the little floweret and the 
mother-plant. I hope my poetic prayers have 
been heard, and will be answerer up to the 
warmest sincerity of their fullest extent ; and 
then Mrs Henri will tind her little darling the 
representative of his late parent, in every 
thing but his abridged existence. 

I have ju;^t hnished the following son^, 
which, to a lady the descendant of Wallace, 
and many heroes of his truly illustrious line, 
and herself ihe mother of several soldiers, needil 
neithfci preface nor apology. 

Scene, — Afield of battlf—time of the day, even- 
ing — th'r wuujided and di/ijtg of the viclorioua 
army are supposed to join in Ihejullowing 

SONG OF DEATH. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and 



Our I'ace of existence is run ! 
Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's glooroj 



No terrors hast thou to the brave : 

Thou strik'st the poor peasant — he sinks in th* 
dark, 
Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name : 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorioua 



In the field of proud honour — our swords in 

Our king and our country to sr« — 
"While victory shines oa life's last ebbing 

O, who would not die with the tJt^ve i 



im 



DlAMLLJD OBrXET LIBRilEY. 



St pp-Te n»e to the fore- 
going Tef8«s w as. !oykiaj| over, with k irn 
&iendy M'Donal-i's collection of tiighl^od 
airs; I mtis struck with cue, an Isle of S 
tone, entitled OroH an A:n^, or, Tkf Son^ of 
Death, to the mettsure of which 1 Lkve adapted 
my Btania*. I hare of late coiaposed two or 
three other little pieces, whi<-h ere yon foil 
orbed moon, whose broad iropadem fac» oo 
stares at old mother earth ail airbt, shall £i&< 
shruak into a modest crwoeni, jn«t p««piag 
forth at dewy dawa, I shai] find an hour lo 
traaseril>e for joa. J Dtsuje vout cownnettde ' 



No. cxxvm. 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

bthJarruary, 1792. 
Yoo see my hurried life, madam ; 1 ean oi 
command starts of time; howevtr, I sm giad 
of one thing ; since I iiuished the other sheet 
the political blast that threatened my w*=lfare 
is overblown. I hare correspouded with <^tQ- 
missioner Graham, tor the Board had mada 
me the subject of their animadversions ; 
now I have the pleasure of intormiug jon, that 
all is get to righu in tnat quarter. Now, 
to these informers, maj tb^ devil be let loose 

but hold ! I was praying most fervently 

in my last sheet, and I must not so soon faU 
swearing in this. 

Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idly 
efBcions thint what mischief they do by their 
malicious insinnations, indirect impertinence, 
or thoughtless blabbings. What a difference 
there is in intrinsic worth, candour, benevo- 
lence, generosity, kindness — in all the chari- 
ties, and all the virtues ; between one class of 
human beings and another. For instance, 
the am'able circle I so lately mixed with in the 

hospitable hall of D .their generous hearts 

— the«Puacontaminated, dignified minds— their 
infomed and polished uaderstandings — wbat 
a contrast, when corcpared — if such comparing 
were not downright sacrilege— with the soul 
of the miscreant who can deliberateiy plot the 
destruction of an honest man that never offend- 
ed him, and with a gr^n of sMisfaclion see ibe 
Qnfcrtn"pie being, h's *'s'*lifi;! 'wf-. and prat- 
tling innoeeuti, tn/ncd over to beggary aad 

Your cup, my dear madam, arrived safe. 1 
had two worthy fellow- di:i.ug with me th- 
other day, when I, witt. "r-at foriuaiit^, r.ro- 
daced my whigmeieere eup, and lold ti;-!n 
that it had been a f&inijj-piece amuc>c: tha 
deseendants of Sir William Wallaoe. This 
roused sach «b eothnsiasm, that they insisied 
on bempering the punch roend in it ; aac by 
and by«, iM/vcr did your great a&cebtor ia a 
isoiMiran more oompietety to rent than for a 
time did your cup my two friends. Apropos, 
this is the seasoa of vi&hin^. Hrj (nid bits* 
soxk, my dear friend, and bless ace tbs .bam- 
alest actd sinc«test of jour frieuds* by graaiing 
yoa y«t many returns of the eeteon I May aH 
^ixid thing: attend you bnd ^oarsi wheie^>« 
they are Maitcrttd over the etimi i 



TO MR W^ILLIAM SMfiLUE> 
PRIISTER. 



Dvmfriet, 92d January, 1T92, 



fashion too. What a task ! to you — who 
no more for th; herd ef animals called youQ^ I 
iadie*, than je« do for the herd oi, animals | 
caliM ycuup f^atlemeo. To yea — who de- 
spise and dv'X' -Jie groupings and oombina- 
tious of fashiou. '• an idiot painter that ti«eial 
induEtnons to place staring tools and unprin- I 
cipiied knaves m ihe foreground of his picture* I 
while men of sense and honesty are too oftett ^ 
thrown in the dimmee; shaiipb. Mrs Riddeiy 
who will take this letter to town with her and 
send it to you, is ■ ^araeter that, even in your 
own way, as a naturalist aud a phito6opher« 
would be an acquisition to your acquaintance. 
The lady too is a votary of the muses : and as 
I think myself somewhat of a judge in my own 
trade, 1 assure you that her verses, aiwtiys 
corre<^, and often elegant, are much beyond 
the common mn of the lady-pcKtettet: oi tht day. 
She ie a great admirer of ycur book, and hear- 
ing me say that 1 was acquainted with you, 
she begged to be known to you, as she is just 
going to pay her first Tisit to onr Caledonian 
capitaL Itold her that her best way was to 
desire her near relation, and your intimate 
friend, Craigdarroch, to have yon at his house 
while she was there ; and lest yon micht think 
of a lively AV'est Indian girl of eigbteea, as 
girls of eighteen too often deserve to be thought 
of, I should take care to remove that piejudiee- 
To be impartial, however, in appreciating the 
lady's merits, she has one unlucky iailing, a 
failing which you will easily discover, as she 
seems rather pleased with indulging la it ; and 
a failing that yoo will as easily pardou, as it is 
a sin which very much besets yourself; — 
where she dislikes or despiaes, she is apt to 
make no more a s. cret of it, than where she 
esteems and re^ppcis. 

I will not pic^ent yoQ with the snmeanin* 
mpHtnenU of ttce sfoson, but 1 will send yoa 
y Whrmest wishes and moi.t ardent prayers, 

that fortune m»j never Ltxrow your subsistence 
ihs mercy of a knave, ot set your character 
the jndgineia of a fool, but that, npriErht 

II erect, you ii^ay walk to an honest grave, 
ir7« men of leitid-t saaL say* IlereUee a man 
;o aic hocoar to scieoccj acil men of worti 
\'.\ »a.*,Uero uc^ a mau who did buooor to 
moa uat&roi 



TO MR W. INICOL. 

SOtA Febrvary, 17M. 
O thoQ, wisest among the wise, mtridian 
blase ut proo^a.-te, full moon of diseretion, aa<t 
eiu!< of aatcv o«jun»eUurs 1 ll»w intiuiit»ly is 
lii; puddl^ttouutsd, raitle-hcaiad, wroag-h«a>l- 



BrR-NS^—LETTERS. 



14f 



ed, ronnd-headed slaT« ia<3»bi«Kl to thy inper- 
cuiiaent poorness, that from tSe iDminuo* fth 
of thjr own rigbL-lioed rectituds, ttion iooke«t 
beiiigrnl; ilown on an erring v.reieh, of ■whom 
the zi^ zag wandering* def; ail the powers of 
ealcuiatioii, from the simple copolation of nnitsy 
up CO the hidden mysteries of tiaxions ! May 
one fteble ray of that lifht of wisJom which 
darts from tliy sensorium, straight as the arrow 
of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspira- 
tion, may it be my portion, so that I may be 
less unworthy of the face and favour of that 
father of proverbe and master of maxims, that 
antipode of folly , and magnet among the sages, 
the wise and witty Willie Nicoll Amen I 
Ameni Yea, so be it! 

For me t I am a beast, a reptile, and know 
nothing! From the cave of my ignorance, 
amid the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential 
fames of my political heresies I look up to thee, 
aa doth « toad through the iron-barred lucerne 
of » pestiferous dungeon, to the cloudless glory 
of a summer sun 1 Sorely sighing in bitterness of 
•oal, I sayf when shall my name be the quota- 
tion of the wise, and my countenance be the 
delight of the godly, like the illastrious lord of 
Laggan's many hills i* As for him, his works 
•re perfect ; never did the pen of calumny blur 
the fair page of bis reputation, nor the bolt ot 
faatrcd fly at his dweliiog. 

Thou mirror of purity, when shall the elfin* 
lamp of my glimmerous understanding, purged 
Irom sensual appetites and gross dssircs, shLvi 
like the constsUation of thy iBleilectoal powers. 
— As for thee, thy thoughts are pure, and thy 
lips are holy. Never did the unhallowed 
breath of the powers of darkness, and the 
pleasures of darkness, pollute the saered flame 
of thy sky-desceodsd and heaven-bonnd desires ; 
never did the vapours of imparity stain the un- 
clonded serene of thy eeruUan imaginaiioii. 
O that like thine ware the tenor of my hfe, 
like thine the tenor of my evnversatioD 1 then 
should no friend fear for mj strength, no 
enemy rejoice in my weakness I Then should I 
lie down and rise np, and none to make me 
afraid. — May thy- pity and th^ prayer be exer- 
cised for, O thou lamp of wisdom nud mirror 
of morality { thy devoted ilare. {■ 



No. CXXXL 

TO MR CUNNINGHAil. 

3d iSarch, 1793. 
8icee I wrote to yea the last lugubrious sheet, 
I have not had time to wriu yo« farther. 
When I say that I had not time, that, as ant-. 
al, means, that the three demons, ixdol«no«« 
businessy and ennui, have so completely shared 
my honrs among them, as not to leave aa a 
live minstes fragment to take up a sen in. 

lliank heaven, I feel my spirits Dnoying up- 
wards with the reo(>viitiDg year. Now I shall 
in good earaMt take op Thorns 
dare say be thicks I have used hia 



» Mr NieoL 
f This gtnin of irooy was eTcitrd by a 
of Ur Niool'si coou^aialof good advivo. 



I moft oTvn with too much "jyv^^finc* of trntb- 
ApropoB, do yon knon the nneh Mnurod 
old Highland air called T'ftt Sutrr't Dochlcr t 
It is a tirst-rate favourite of mine, and 1 have 
written what I reckon one of my best song> lo 
it. 1 will send it to you as it was sunj; with 
great applause in some fashionable circles by 
Major Robertson of Lude, who was here with 
his corps. 

There is one commission that I must trouble 
you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, e pres- 
ent from a departed friend, which vex^^s me 
much. 1 have gotten one of your Highland 
pebbles, which 1 fancy would mitks a »ery de- 
cent one ; and I want to cut my armorial 
bearing on it ; will you be so obliging aa in- 
w hat will be the expense of such a busi- 
ness ? I do not know that my name is matri' 
cnlAted. as the heralds call it, at all ; but I 
have invented arms for mjielf, so yon know I 
shall be chief of the name ; and by courtesy of 
Scotland, will likewise be entitled to support- 
These, however, 1 do not intend having 
ly seaL I am a bit of a herald ; and shall 
give yon, tecunditm art«n, my arms. On a 
held, asure, a holly bush, seeded, proper, iu 
base I a shepherd's pipe and crook, salter- 
wise, also proper, in ebief. On a wreath of 
the colours, a wood-lark perching on a sprig of 
bay-tree, proper : for crest, two mottoes, round 
the top of the crest, Wood-note* %ciUL At iba 
bottom of the shield, in the usual place. Better 
! bush than nae hield. By the shepheni's 
pipe and crook I do not mean the nonsense of 
painters of Arcadia ; but a Slock and Horn, and 
a C'uJ), such as yon see at the head of Alluu 
Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edition of the Gini~ 
tie Shiepherd. By the bye, do you know Allan ? 
He must be a man of very great genius. Why 
is he not more known T Has he no patrcns ? 
or do '* Poverty's cold wind and crushing 
rain beat keen and heavy" on him ? I once, 
and but once, got a glance of that noble edition 
of the noblest pastoral in the world, and dear as 
it was, I meaji dear as to my pocket, 1 would 
have bought it; but I was told that it was 
printed and engraved for subscribers only. He 
IS the only artist who has hit genuine pastoral 
costume. >VTiat, my dear Cunningham, is 
there in riches, that they narrow and hardea 
tbe heart so 7 I think that were I as rich as the 
sun, 1 should be as generous as the day ; but as 
I have no reason to imagine my soul a nobler 
one than any other man's, I must conclude that 
wealdi imparts a bird-lime quality to the pos- 
sessory at which the man, in his natrveipoverty, 
would have revolted. What has led v« to this.ia 
the idea of socA u :>>»t,aa Mr Allan possesses, and 
such riches as r. bo^ob or govcmor-contracior 
possesses, and why they do aot form a mutual 
league. Let wealth shelter aad eherish anpro- 
tecud merit, and the gratitude a»d celebrity of 
that merit will ricUy repay H. 



N*. cxxxn. 

I TO MBS DLTO-OP. 

IJbMen Water Foot, VU JMfut*, H&S. 
Do not blame ice for it, madain — my awa oon. 
•nience, hacku^ twd wMthcr-b«atea a* it it. 



DIAMOND CABIXET LIBRARY. 



in watchins and reproving my va-iane-, fol- 
lies, in<lolence, &c. has continued to bluiue 
»iid punish me hufiicieutly. 

Do you think it possible, my dear and 
konoured friend, that I could be so lost to gra- 
titude for many f vours ; to esteem for much 
Vforth, and to the honest, kind, pleasurable tie 
of, now, old acquamiance, and, I hope and am 
sure, of progressive increasing friendship — as, 
for a single day, not to think of you— to ask 
the Fates what they are doing and about to do 
with my much loved friend and her wide scat- 
tered connexions, and to beg of them to be as 
kind to you and yours as they possibly can ? 

Apropos, (though how it is apropos, I have 
not leisure to explain,) do you know that I am 
almost in love with an acquaintance of yours ? 
— Almost ! said I — I am iu love, souse ! over 
head and ears, deep as the most unfathomable 
abyss of the boundless ocean ; but the word. 
Love, owing to the intern-.ingledoms of the 
good and the had, the pure and the impure, in 
•his world, being rather an equivocal term for 
expressing one's sentiments and sensations, I 
mubt do justice to the sacred puruy of my at- 
tachment. Know then, that the hr-art-struck 
awe, the distant humble approach, the delight 
we should have in gazing upon and listening 
to a Messenger of Heaven, appearing in all the 
unspotted purity of his celestial home, among 
the coarse, polluted, far inferior sous of men, 
to deliver to them tidings that make their 
hearts swim in joy, and their imaginations soar 
in transport — si.ch, so delighting, ana so pure, 
were the emotions of my soul ou meeting the 
oiher day with Miss L — B— , your neighbour 

atM . Mr B. with his two daughters, 

accompanied by Mr H. of G. passing through 
Dumfries a few days ago, on their way to 
England, did me the honour of calling on me ; 
on which I took my horse (though God 
knows I could ill spare the time), and accom. 
panied them fourteen or fifteen miles, and 
dined and spent the day with them. 'Twas 
about nine, I think, when I left them ; and 
riding home, I composed the following ballad, 
of which you will probably think you have a 
dear bargain, as it will cost ytu anothel groat 
of postage. YoTi must know that there if an 
old ballad beginning with 



So I parodied it as follows, which is literally 
the first copy, •♦ unanointed uuauuealed," as 
Hamlet says. — See the poem. 

So much for ballads. I regret that yon are 
gone to the east country, as 1 am to be in Ayr- 
shire in about a fortnight. Ihis wurldof ours, 
notwithstanaiug it has many good things in it, 
yet it has ever had this curse, that two or 
three people who would be the happier the 
oftener they met together, are, almost without 
exception, always so placed as ne\er to meet 
but once or twice a-year, which, considering 
the few years of a man's life, is a very great 
"evil under the sun," which I do not recol- 
lect that Solomon has mentioned in his cata- 
logue of the miseries of man. 1 hope and be- 
lieve that there is a state of existence beyond the 
grave, where tlie worthj of this life will renew 




• • Tell ns, ye dead. 
Will none of yon in pity disclose the 
■NV hat 'tis you are, and we mu ' ' 



A thousand times have I made this apos- 
trophe to the departed sons of men, but not 
one of them has ever thought fit to answer the 
question. "O that some courteous ghost 
would blab it oul!"— but it cannot be; you 
ana I, my friend, must make the experiment 
by ourselves, and for ourselves. However, 
I am so convinced that an unshaken taith ia 
the doctrines of religion is not only necessary, 
by making us better men, but also by making 
us happier insn, that 1 shall take every care 
tliat your little god-son, and every little crea- 
ture that shall call me father, shall be taugh* 
them. 

So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at 
this wild place of the world, in the intervals of 
my labour of discharging a vessel of rum from 
Ajitigua. 



Jo. cxxxin 

TO MR CUNNINGHAM. - 

Dumfries, lOth September, 1792. 
No I I will not attempt an apology. — Amid all 
my hurry of business, grinding the face of the 
publican and the sinner on the merciless 
wheels of the excise ; making ballads, and thea 
crinking, and singing them ; and, over and 
above all, the correcting the press-work of two 
diiierent publications ; still, still I might Lave 
stolen five minutes to dedicate to one of the 
first of my friends and fellow-creatures. I 
might have done, as 1 do at present, snatched 
an hour near « ' witching time of night, ' — and 
scrawled a page or two. 1 might have con- 
gratulated my friend on his marriage ; or I 
might have thanked the Caledonian archers 
for the honour they have done me (though lo 
do myself justice, I intended to have dona 
both in rhyme, else I had done both long ere 
now). A\ ell, then, here is to your good 
health! for you must know, I have set a nip- 
perkin of toddy by me, just by way of sped, 
to keep away the uieikle horned Deii', or any of 
his subaltern imps who may be on their nightly 
rounds. 

But what shall I write to yon ? "The Toice 
said, Cry" and I said,'' What shall I cry ?" 
— O, thou spirit! whatever thou art, or 
wherever thcu makest thyself visible ! be thou 
a bogle by the eerie side of an auld thorn, in 
the dreary glen through which the herd calian 
mann bicker in his gloamin route frae the 
faulde! Be thou a brownie, set, at dead of 
night, to thy task by the biazing ingle, or in 
the solitary barn where the repercussions of 
thy iron flail half ailright ihys<elf, as thon per- 
formest the work of twenty of the sons of men, 
ere the cock-crowing summon thee to thy ample 
cog of substantial brose. — Be thou a kelpii 
haunting the lord or ferry, in the starless nigh . 
mixing thy laughing yell with the howling if 
the storm, and the roaring of the llrod, fcs thou 



BURNS LErrERS. 



149 



vlewest the perils and mii 
founderiii^ horse, or in ibe tiiinbliug boat! — 
Or, lastU, be ibou a ghost, pajing; iby noctur- 
nal visits to the hoary ruins of decayed gran- 
deur ; or performing thy mystic riles in the 
shadow of thv time-worn cUurch, while the 
moon looks, without a cloud, on the silent, 
ghastly dwellings of the dead around thee; or 
taking thy stand by the bedside of ihe villain, 
or the murderer, pourtraying on his dreaming 
fancy, pictures, areadful as the horrors of un- 
veiled heil, and terrible as the wrath of in- 
censed Deity I — Conie, thou spirit, but not in 
these horrid forms; come with the milder, 
gentle, easy inspirations, which thou breathest 
round the nig of a prating advocate, or the 
tete of a tea-sipping gossip, while their tongues 
run at the ligbt-horse gallop of clishmaclaver 
for ever and ever— come and assist a poor devil 
■who is quite jaded in the attempt to share half 
an idea among half a hundred words ; to hil up 
four quarto pages, while he has not got one 
single sentence of recollection, information, or 
remark worth putting pen to paper for. 

1 feel, I feel the presence of supernatural as- 
sistance ! circled in the embrace of my elLow 
chair, my breast labours, like the bloated Sybil 
on her three-footed stool, and like her too, la- 
bours with Nonsense. — Nonsense, auspicious 
name ! Tutor, friend, and finger-post in the 
mystic mazes of law ; the cadaverous paths of 
phasic ; and particularly in the sightless soar- 
ings of school divinity, who, leaving Common 
Sense confounded at his strength of pinion, 
Keason, delirious with eyeing Lis giddy Hight ; 
and Truth creeping back into the bottom of her 
well, cursing the hour that ever she ofi'ered her 
scorned alliance to the wizard power of 'iheo- 
Jogic Vision — raves abroad on all the winds. 
•' On earth Discord ! a gloomy Heaven above, 
opening her jealous gates to the nineteen thou- 
sandth part of the tithe of niankina! and be- 
low, an inescapable and inexorable hell, ex- 
panuiug its leviathan jaws for the vast residue 
of mortals! I 1" — O doctrine 1 comfortable 
and healing to the weary, wounded soul of 
man! Ve sons and daughters of affliction, ye 
pauvres mistrabits, to whom day brings no 
pleasure, and night yields no rest, be com- 
forted ! " 'Tis but one to nineteen hundred 
thousand that your situation will mend in this 
world;" so, alas, the experience of the poor 
and the needy too often affirms ; and 'tis nine- 
teen hundred thousand to one, by the dogmas 

of , that you wiJi be damned 

eternally in the world to come 1 

But of all iS'onseuse, Religious Nonsense is 
the most nonsensical; so enough, and more 
than enough of it. Only, by the bye, will 
you, or can you tell me, my dear Cunningham, 
why a sectarian turn of mind has always a ten- 
dency to narrow and illiberalize the heart. 
They are orderly ; they may be just ; nay, I 
have known them merciful : but still your chil- 
dren of sanctity move among their fellow-crea- 
tures with a nostril snuffing putrescence, and 
a foot spurning tilth, in short, with a conceited 

dignity that your titled 

or any other of your Scottish 

lordlings of seven centuries standing, aispiay 
when they accidentally mix among the many- 
aproned sons of mechanical life. I remember, 
in my plough-boy days, I could not conceive it 
pvuiible that a noble lord could be a foolf or a 



godly man could be a knave.— How ignorant 
are plough-Loys !— Nay, I have since dis- 
covered that a grdly uoman may be a . . .1 
U hold—Here's t'ye agam-this mm is 
generous Antigua, so a'very unfit menstruum 
■ r scandal. 

Apropos, how do you like, I mean reo/Zylike 
the married life? Ah, my fr.end 1 matrimony 
is quite a difl'erent thing from what your love- 
sick youths and sighing girls take it to be! 
But marriage, we are told, is appointed by 
God, and 1 shall never quarrel with any of his 
institutions. I am a husband of older stand- 
ing than you, and shall give you my ideas • 
of the conjugal state — (en passant, you know ' 
1 am no Latinist, is not conjugal derived 
{rom jiigum, a yoke ?) "Well, then, the scale 
of good wifeship I divide into ten parts. — 
Goodna!nre/onr;Good secse, two; \Mt,one; 
Personal Charms, viz. a sweet face, eloquent 
ejes, fine limbs, graceful carriage, (1 vsoul 
add a fine waist too, but that is so seen spoilt, 
you know,) all these, one; as for the other 
qualities belonging to, or attending on, a wife, 
such as Fortune, Connexions, Education, (I 
mean education extraordinary,) Family Blood, 
&c. divide the two remaining degrees among 
them as you please ; only, remember that all 
these minor properties must be expressed by 
J'ractimis, for there is not any one of them, in 
the aforesaid scale, entitled to the dignity of 
an integer. 

As for the rest of my fancies and reveries- 
how 1 lately met with AJiss L B , 

the most beautiful, elegant woman in the 
world— how I accompanied her and her 
father's family fifteen miles on their journey, 
out of pure devotion, to admire the loveliness 
of the works of God, in such an unequalled 
aispiay of them — how, in galloping home at 
night, I made a ballad on her of which these 
two stanzas make a part — 



Thou, bonnie L , art a queen, j 

Ihy subjects we before thee; 

Thou, bonnie L , art divine, 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The very Deil, he could na scaith 

Whatever wadbelang tbee! 
He'd look into thy bonnie face 

And say, '• 1 canna wrang thee. " 

— behold all these things are written In the 
chronicles of my imagination, and shall be 
read by thee, my dear friend, and by thy be- 
loved spouse, my othor dear friend, at a more 

Now to thee, and to thy before-designed 
iosom-companion, be given the precious things 
brought forth by the sun, and the precious 
things brought forth by the moon, and the 
benignest infiuences of the stars, and the living 
streams which flow from the fountains of life* 
and by the tree of life, for ever and ever 1 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBR.\BV. 



No. CXXXIV. 
TO MRS DUNLOP. 

JhemfriMt, 84</i September, 1798. 

1 h*Tfl this moment, my dear niadani.vcurs of the 
twenty-third. All your oth-r kiuil rcv>roache!i, 
yonr newt, &c. are out of mj bead wben I 

read and thiiik on Mr» H 'i sitaaticn. 

Good God I a heart-wouad?d, h<^ipless youag 
voman — in • strange, foreign 'and, and that 
land eouTuUed with every horror that can 
barrow the human feeling*— gick — looiung, 
loafing for a comforter, but finding none 
— a mothar's feeling* F too— but it is too 
tnueht be nho wounded (h« only eau), may 
H.heal!* 

I wiah the farmer great joy of his new ae- 
qnicition to hi* family. . 

2 cannot say that 1 give him joy of bis life a* a 
farmer. 'Tis, as a farmer paying a dear, 
nneoascionable rent, a cursed it/e 1 As to a 
laird farming his own property ; sowing his 
own curn is hope ; and reaping'it, in spite of 
brittle weather, in gladness ; knowing that 
none can say onto him, ••what dost thou?" 
—fattening his herds; shearing his docics ; 
rejoicing at Christmas ; and begetting sons aod 
daughters, until he be the renerated, ^rey- 
baired leader of a little tribe— 'tis a heavenly 
life ! but deril take the life of reaping the fiuiu 
that saother must eat. 

VV .11, your kind wishes will be gratified, as 
to freeing me when 1 make my Ayrshire Tisiu 

1 cannot leave Mrs B until her nine 

months' race is ma, which may, perhaps, be in 
three or four weeks. Slis, uio, s^euis deter- 
mined to make ma the oai.riarchal leader of a 



boyg u aue girl, I shall be so much th( 
pleased. I hope, if 1 am spared with them, 
to show a set of boys thit will do honour to luy 
cares and name : but 1 am not equal to the 
task of rearing girl&. Besides, I am too poor ; 
a girl should always have a fortune. Apropos, 
your little god-son is thriviug charmingly, but 
is a very dexil. He, though two years 
jouuger, has completely mastered his brother. 
Kobert is indeed the mildest, gentlest crea- 
ture I ever saw. He has a most surprising 
Bieiiiory, and is qniie the pride of his school- 
tuoitier. 

Yoa know how readily we get into prattle 
upon a subject dear to our heart : you can ex- 
cuse it. God bless you and yours I 



* lliis much-lamented lady was gone to the 
south of France with her infant sou, where she 
died sooa oftej. 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 



[ had been frT>m home, and did not rercfre 
your letter until my return the other daj, 
W hat shall I say to comfort yoa, my mucL. 
valued, niuch-adlicte^ fnand ! 1 can but 
grieve with you ; consolation, I hare none to 
offer, except that which religion holds out to 
the chilaren of aOlici'ioa — chiidreno/afflicUon 1 
— how ju!-t the expression ! and like every 
other family, they have matters among theiB 
which they hear, see, and feel in a serious, 
ail-unportaut manner, of which the world has 
not, nor cares to have, any idea. The world 
looks inditferently on, makes the passing 
remark, and proceeds to the next novel occur- 
rence. 

Alas, madam ! who would wish for many 
years P %Vhat is it but to drag existence until 
our joys gradoaJly expire and leave us in a 
night of misery ; like the gloom which blou 
out the stars one by one, from the face (^ 
night, and lenves us, without a ray of comfort, 
in the bowling waste! 

I am incerrvpted, and must leaTe off. You 
shall soon hear from me again. 



No. CXXXVI. 

TO MRS DUNLOP 

DumfrieM, 6th December, 1799. 
I shall be in Ayrshire, I think, next week ; 
and if a: all possible, I shall certainly, my 
much-e:>teemed friend, have the pleasure of 
visiting at Dunlop-house. 

Alas, Qiadam .' how seldom do we meet in this 
world, that we have reason to congratulate our- 
selves on ac-cessions of happiness ! 1 have not 
pasbed half the ordinary term of an old man's 
life, and yet 1 scarcely look over the obituary 
of a newspaper, that I do not see some names 
that I haTC known, and which I, and other 
aoijuaintances, little thouglit to meet with 
there so soon. Every oiber instance of the 
mortality of our kind, makes us cast an anxious 
look inio the dreadful abvssof uncertainty, and 
shudQer with appreheusioas for our own fata. 
Bui of how differenr an importance are the lives 
of ditfereut individual* ? Nay, of what ita- 
portance is one period of the same life, mors 
th»n auother f A few years ago, I could have 
lain down in the dust, ••careless of the voic« 
of the morning;" and now, not a few, and 
thaeu most helpless individuals, would, oa 
lo^n^ me and my exertions, lose !>otn their 
•• staff and shield- " By the v»y, thesa 
helpless ones have lately got an addit'on ; 
iMr» B. havLog given aie a fine girl since I 
v*r<>tp you. There is a chRrTr.injf paBiaije ia 
iljuHisua "a Eduai-d and ElaiMor*, 



ll 



Bl R.NS l,ETrERS. 



131 



As I am trot in tbe waj of qootations, I shall 
giTe vou aru>lber from tbe same piece, pecu- 
liarlv', alas, toe fxniniiwly appiisile. my aear 
mad'aoi, to jow present frame of iuumI : 1 

•* ^Tio BO nn«<»'thy but may proudly deck 

him j 

With his fair-wefethw Tirtne, that exulta i 

GlaA o 'er th« eommer maia ? the tempest 

TTie rough wind« rage aload ; when from the 

ThU Tirraa ghrioks and in a corner lies, 
Lamenting — Hi^aveos I if priTil«>^<>d fr«m trial. 
How che«.p a thiiv? were tirtae ! ' ' 

I do not remeut:rr to hare heard yoti mea- 
tioB Thomsou'i dr&u.»^ 1 pick np favourite 
quolatious, aud itore tbem ic my mind aa 
ready erraonr, ofi'eusive or defeiwiT*, amid 
the struggle of this turbulent eiiBteuce. Of 
these la one, a Tery favouriU ©De, from bia 
A./,td, 

•• Attach thee firmW to the firtcoas deedt 
Ana officea of life'j to life ;ts*-lf. 
\\,ih aU it« Tain 1 ■ 



form 

l.--ttrt, J am apt to beguiity of »Bch repetitions. \ 
The compaBs of the heart, in th« musical style 
ul expression, is mach more bounded than that 
ot tiiC iudgination ; so the notes of the former 
are extremely ant to ruo into one another ; but 
in reiarn for tne paucity of its compass, ito ' 
few notes are much more iwenC 1 must still 
g-ive jou another qaotation, which lam almost ; 
Bcre I barn givsu jou before, bat 1 cannot re- 
sist the temptaiioo. The subject is religion^ 
speaking of iu iiaportance to mankind, tb« 
author 6a.y8« 

" Tig this, my friend, that streaks our morn- 
ing bright, " iic as in p. 1S5. 

I see you are in for double postage, so I »hall 
e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We in lius 
couiiiry beie have mai>y alarms of the reform- 
ist.', or raihtr the repubitcan spint, of your 
ph.rl of ibe kingdom. Indeed wc area good 
d'-a.i in comnioiion onrseWe*. l-jr me, 1 am a 

deed, Heaven knows, but siill so much so aa 
to gag me. ^V hai my priva-e lentioieota are, 
you will liud out without an iotT;rpre<er. 

I have taken cp the subject is euother Tiew; 
and the oiber day, for h preii? actresg's benelit- 
uight, I wr<.'te an address, which i will give 
you on I be uiner page, called Tht iil^nlt of 
Woman. 

THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 



uipiro, and iIj* faii a 



While Quacks of state laact each prodnce hi* 

plan. 
And fvfu children lisp the RighJt of Uss • 
AiDid »hia mighty fuM juet l*t mt tneiition, 
Thf Hi^nts of Woman merit some attention. 



First, in tbe sexes' intermix'd c 
Ote sacred Right of Woman is v^oUclion. — 
Tne tender hower that lifts us head, elate. 
Helpless, must fall before th« bia>>( of fate, 
Sank to the earth, defao«d it« lonely forci, 
Untees yonr slieltcf ward tb' impending 



Dor seocnd Right— bat needless here it 

To kt*p tha: right inTiolate'g tb« fashion. 
Each man ot seuse has it so fail before him, 
Hf'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decoi-inn. 
infre wBi, inde«d, in far less polish 'd days. 
A time, when rough rude man had naughty 

Would swagger, sw«ar, get drank, kick np a 



tiedt 
I Now, well-bred mtti — and roa ere all Well- 
i br«i— 

Most justly think (and vw tra mneh th« 

gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor nuta- 
\ ners. * 

For Right the third, otu last, oar best, ottr 

That right to flattering female hearts tLe 

, Which eien the Rights of Kings in low pros- 

; Most humbly own — liji dear, d^ear adtrJration I 
j In that bles<'o sphere alone «e lire end move ; 
I Ihere taste that life of life— im mortal lore — 
I Smiles, glacccs, sighs, tears, iiUf flirtatious, 

I 'Gaiujt such an host what fiinty savage dares— 
When awiu. Beauty joins wiih all her charms. 
Who IS so raeh as rise in rebel arms ? 

Bat truce with kings, and true* with eon- 
Mi tniions, 
\Vith bloody armaments and rerolatioDS) 



No. CXXXVIL 

TO MISS B , OF YORK. 

MADAM, aidiforcA, 1793. 

Among many thing* for which I envy those 
hale, k>ng-livec ©Id fellows before the flood, 
u this in particular, that when ihe^i met 
with any boay after their own heart, they had 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBIttVRY. 



It charming lon^ prospect of many, many hap- 
py meetings witli theiu in after-life. 

Now, ill this ehurt, stormy winter day of 
oui tieeting existence, when you now and then, 
in the Chapter of Accidents, meet an indivi. 
dual whii;.e acquaintance is a real acquisition, 
there are all the probabilities against you, that 
you shall never meet with that valued charac- 
ter more. On the other hand, brief as the 
miserable being is, it is none of the least of 
the miseries belonging to it, that if there is any 
miscreant whom you hate, or creature whom 
you despise, the ill run of the chances >hall be 
so against you, that in the overtakings, turn- 
ings, and jostluigs of life, pop, at some un- 
lucky corner eternally comes the wretch upon 
you, and will not allow your indignation or 
contempt a moment's repose. As I am a sturdy 
believer in the powers of darkness, I take those 
to be the doings of that old author of mischief, 
tbe devil. It is weU known that he has some 
kind of short-hand way of taking down our 
thoughts, and 1 make no doubt that he is per- 
fectly acquainted with my sentiments respect- 
ing iMiss B ; how mucn 1 admired her 

abilities, and valued her worth, and how very 
fortunate I thought myself in her acquaintance. 
For this last reason, my dear madam, I must 
entertain no hopes of the very great pleasure of 
saeeting with you again. 

Miss H tells me that she is sending a 

packet to you, and I beg leave to send you the 
inclosed sonnet, though, to tell you the real 
truth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, tiiat I 
may have an opportunity of declaring with 
how much respectful esteem I have the honour 
to be, iio. 



No. CXXXVIIL 
TO MISS C . 

MADAM, Ay^ust, 1793. 

Some rather nnlooked-for accidents have pre- 
vented my doing myself the honour of a second 
visit to Arbiegland, as I was so hospitably in- 
vited, and so positively meant to have done. — 
However, I still hope to have that pleasure be- 
fore the busy months of harvest begin. 

I inclose you two of my late pieces, as some 
*ind return for the pleasure 1 have received in 
perusing a certain MS. volume of poems in the 
possession of Captain Riddel. To repay one 
■with an old song, is a proverb, whose force you , 
madam, 1 know will not allow. What is said 
of illustrious descent is, 1 believe, equally true 
of a talent for poetry ; none ever de^pised it 
■who had pretensions to it. The fates and 
characters of the rhyming tribe often employ 
my thoughts when I am disposed to be melan- 
choly. There is not, among all tbe martyro- 
logies that ever were penned, so rueful a nar- 
rative as the lives of the poets. — in the com. 
parative view of wretches, the criterion is not 
what they are doomed to suti'er, but how they 
are formed to bear. Take a being of our kind, 
give him a stronger imagination, and a more 
delicate sensibility, which between them will 
eyer engender a niore uiigiveraable .-et of pas- 
sions tliaii are the usual lot of man ; implant 



in him an irresistible impulse to some idle va- 
gary, such as arranging wild ttpwers in fan- 
tastical nosegays, tracing tbe grasshopper to 
his haunt by his chirping song, watching the 
frisks of the little minnows in the sunny pooly 
or bunting after the intrigues of butterflies — 
in short, send him adrift after some pursuit 
which shall eternally mislead him from the 
paths oflucre, and yet curse hira with a keener 
relish than any roan living for the pleasures 
that lucre can purchase ; lastly, hll up the 
measure of his woes by bestowing on him a 
spurning sense of his own dignity, and you 
have created a wight nearly as miserable as a 
poet. To you, madam, 1 need not recount the 
fairy pleasures the muse bestows to counterbal- 
ance this catalogue of evils. Bewitching 
puetry is like bewitching woman; she has in 
all ages been accused of misleading mankind 
from the counsels of wisdom and the paths of 
pradeuce, involving them in difficulties, bait- 
ing them with poverty, branding them with 
inlamy, and plunging them in the whirling 
vortex of ruin ; yet where is the man but must 
own that all happiness on earth is not worthy 
the name — that even the holy hermit's solitary 
prospect of paradisaical bliss, is but the glitter 
of a northern sun, rising over a frozen region, 
compared with the many pleasures, the name- 
less raptures that we owe to the lovely Queen 
of the heart of Man 1 



No. CXXXE5 
TO TOHN M'MUttDO, Esq. 
SIR, December, 1793. 

It is saia tnat we take the greatest libertiet 
with our greatest friends, and I pay myself a 
very high compliment in the manner in which 
I am going to apply the remark. I have 
owed you money longer than ever I owed it to 
any man. — iiere is Ker'g account, and here 
are six guineas ; and now, I don 't owe a shil- 
ling to man — or woman either. But for these 

dirty, dog's-eared little pages,* I had 

done myself the honour to have waited on you 
long ago. independent of the oblisatioiN 
your hospitality has laid nie under, the coii- 
bciousuess of vour superiority in the rank of 
man and gentleman, of itself was fully aa 
much as I could ever make head against; but 
(o owe you money too, »as more than 1 could 

I think I once mentioned something of a col- 
lection of Scotch songs I have for some years 
Deen making : I send yon a perusal of what I 
have got together. 1 could uol conveniently 
spaie them above hve or six days, and hve or 
SIX glances of them will probably more than 
suffice you. A very few of them are my own. 
When jou are tired of them, please leave 
them with Mr Clint, of the King's Arms. 
'Ihere is not another copy of the collection in 
the world ; ana 1 shall be sorry that any unfor- 
tunate negligence should deprive me of what 
has cost me a good deal of pains. 



« 



BURNS—LETTERS, 



I am tliinking to send my Address to some peri- 
odical publication, hut it bas nut gut yuur 
sanction, so pray luok over it. 

As to the Tuesday 's play, let me beg of you, 
my dear madam, let me beir of you to give us, 
The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secreti to which 
please add. The Spoiled Child — you will high- 
)y oblige uie by so doing. 

Ah, what an enviable creature yon are! 
There now, this cursed gloomy blue-devil day, 
jou are going to a party of choice spirits — 

I •* To play the shapes 

Of frolic fancy, and incessant form ^ 
Those rapid pictures, tbai assembled train 
Of fleet ideas never join'd before. 
Where lively wit excites to gay surprise ; 
Or foUy.painting humour, grave himself. 
Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every 



But as you rejoice with them that do rejoice, 
do also remember to weep with them that 
weep, and pity your melancholy friend. 



No. CXLL 
TO A LADY, 

IK FAVOUR OF A FLAYER *S BKNBFIT. 

MADAjHr 
You were so very good as to promise me to 
honour my friend with yonr presence on his 
benefit night. That night is fixed for Friday 
first ; the play a most interesting one. The 
way to keep Him. I have the pleasure to 
know Mr G. well. His merit as an actor is 
p>-nerally acknowledfjed. He has genius and 
worth which would do honour to patronage: 
he is a poor and modest man ; claims which, 
from their very silence, have the more forcible 
power ou the generous heart. Alas, for pity I 
that from the indolence of those who have The 
good things of this life in their gift, too often 
does brazen-fronted importunity snatch that 
boon, the rightful due of retiring, humble 
want I Of all the qualities we assign to the 
author ana director of Nature, by far the most 
enviable is to be able "To wipe away all 
tears from r.U eyes." O what iusigniticant, 
sordid wretches are they, however chance may 
have loaded them with wealth, who go to their 

§ raves, to their magnificent mmisoleums, with 
ardly the consciousness of having made one 



poor honest heart happy I 

Bet I crave your pardon, 
to b«g, not to preach. 



aadam ; 1 c 



EXTRACT OF A 

TO Mil 

1794. 

I am extremely obliged to you for your kind 
mention of my interests, in a letter which Mr 
S showed me. At present, my situ- 
ation in life must be in a great measure sta- 
tionary, at least for two or three years. TTie 
statement is this: I am on the supervisor's 
list ; and as we come on there by precedency, 
in two or three years I shall be at the head of 
that list, and be appointed of course i then a 
friend might be of service to me in getting me 
into a place of the kingdom which I -would 
lii<e. A supervisor's income varies from about 
a iiundred and twenty, to two hundred a-year ; 
but the business is an incessant drudgery, and 
would be nearly a complete bar to every spe- 
'cies of literary pursuit. The moment I am 
appointed supervisor in the common routine, 
1 may be nominated on the collector's list ; and 
this is always a business purely of political 
patronage. A collectorship varies much, from 
better than two hundred a-year to near a thou- 
sand. They also come forward by precedency 
oil the list, and have, besides a handsome in- 
come, a life of complete leisure. A life of 
literary leisure, with a decent competence, is 
the summit of my wishes. It would be the 
prudish afiectation of silly pride in me, to say 
that 1 do not need or would not be indebted to 
apolitical iriend ; at the same time, sir, I by 
no means lay my afi'airs before you thus, to 
hook my dependent situation on your benevo- 
lence. If, in my progress of life, an opening 
should occur where the good offices of a gentle- 
man of your public character and political 
consequence might bring me forward, 1 will 
petition your goodness with the same frankness 
and sincerity as I now do myself the honour 
to subscribe myself, &ce. 



Ho. CXLIIL 
TO MRS , 



DEAR MADAM, 
I meant to have called on you yesternight, bl^ 
as I edged up to your box-door, the first ob« 
ject which greeted my view, was one of those 
lobster-coaled puppies, sitting like another 
dragon, guarding tht Hesperian fruit. On 
the condit ons and capitulations you so oblig- 
ingly ofter, I shall certainly make my weather- 
beaten rustic phiz a part of your box furniture 
on Tuesday, when we may arrange the busi- 
ness of the visit. 

Among the profusion of idle compliments 
which insidious craft, or unmeaning folly in- 
cessantly ofier at your shrine— a fihrine, how 

far exalted above such adoration ! permit me, 

were it but for rarity's sake, to pay you the 
honest tribute of a warm heart, and an inde. 
pendent mind ; and to assure you, that I am, 
tbou most amiable, and most accomplished of 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



thy sex, with tbf most respcctitU ««t(*ia, end 
ferreac regard^ Uiiae, ite. 



No. CXLIV. 

TO THE SAME. 

I will wait on too, my eTer-Talufd friead. but 
vrbether in the morning lam not sure. Son- 
day closes a p^rk«3 ui onr curst re-enue hxt^i- 
aesg, and n)c\ probably ^eep me employed 
Wfith my pen aat.l nooc Fine emplojiDenl 
for a poet's pen .' TUere is a »peoies of the 
human genui (tiat i i-ali the ^;in-':o^te cs<i.« : 
»i-hat enriabi* do»s ttu-j are 1 Kounii, aod 
roaod; luid round tht^y go. Mundei!'« ox thM 
criTes hit cotloti mill, is (heir c-^act prototype 
— without an lde^ or a wisb beyond their cir- 
cle ! fat, sleek, stupia, patient, quiet, and con- 
teated ; while here 1 sit, altogether >iovein- 

berish, a d melange of fretfulnets and 

melancholy ; not euoQ^h of the one to roase 
nje to passion, nor of the other to repose me 
la torpiir ; n:y sou! douuciug and fluttering 
round her tenement > like a wild finch, caught 
amid the borrore of winter, and newly thrast 
into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it was 
of me the Hebrew sajre prophesied, when he 
foretold — '* And behold, on whatsoever this 
man doth set bis beurt, it shall not prosper!" 
If my resentment is awakened, it is sure to be 
where it dare not squeak : and if — . . . 



Ftaj that wisdom and biiss be u 



re frequent 
R. B. 



TO TUE SA3IE. 



I baTC thi« n 



!nt got the song from S , 

Olid I am torrj to see that he has spoiled it a 
good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how I 
lend him any thing again. 

1 have sent jou Wn ter, truh happy to have 

tiny the smallest opportunity of obliiring you. 

Tis true, madam, i saw you ouce since I 

was at W : and that onre froze the 

■very life-blood of vn\ heart. ^oiir reception 
©f me was kuch, thai a wretcli nieeiing the 
eye of his judge, about to prouDiu.oe seiiietioe 
of death on him, coald only ba^-^ envied niy 
feelings ana situatioiu But I bate the theine, 
and never more shal! write or .-peak un it. 

One thing 1 shall proudly say, that 1 can 

pay Mrs a higher tribute of esteem, 

and appreciate her amiable worth more truly, 
than any man whom i hdve seen approach 
ber. 



No. CXLVL 
TO THE SAME. 



I ba«e often told yon, 
JO a nad a spice of caprice 
fuia you have at often di: 



naps while your opinions wer<>, at the moment* ] 
b-refri^abiy proviug it. Could atij/ tMug ] 
estrange lue from a triend sach as yoa f — ^ ' 
To-morrow 1 shall have the houonr of waiuog 
on TOO. 

Farewell, thou first of friends, and inort ac- 
complished of women ; eTen with all tbj liul* 
caprices! 



No. CXLVII. 

TO THE SAME. 



MADAM, 
J return your eominon-pla»e book- I ba»« 
perused it with ranch pieii:.ure, and would have 
continued my onticisias, but as it seems the 
critic haj forfeited your esteem, his strictures 
mast lose their value. 

If it ii true that "offences come only from 
the heart, " before you I am guiltless, lb 
admire, esteem, and pri«» jon, as the roost 
accomplished of women, aud the first of friends 
— if these are crimes, I am the most oflenuing 
thing alive. 

In a face where 1 nsed to meet the kind com- 
placency of friendly confidence, tiotv to bud 
cold neglect, and contemptuous scorn — is a 
wrench that my he.art can ill bear. It is, 
however, some kind of miserable good luck, 
that while de-kaui-en-bas rigour may depress 
an unotfending wretch to the ground, it has a 
tendency to rouse a stubborn something in his 
bosom, which, though it cannot heal the 
wounds of his soul, is at least an opiate to 
blunt their poignancy. 

AViih the profoundest respect for yoiu abili- 
ties ; the most sincere esteem, and ardent 
regard for TOur gentle heart and amiable man- 
ners; and the most fervent wish and prayer 
for your welfare, peace, and bliss, I have the 
honour to be, madam, jour most devoted 
hamble servant. 



No. CXLVIIL 

TO JOHN SYME, ESQ 

You know that among other high dignities, 
you have the honour to be my supreme court 



I tb( 



.ceIsa..,-_ 
history ot 



3 yon a song which I 
posed since I saw you, and I am going 



l)o you know that 
foikk v«hom I i 



among much that . 

now the honour to calf mj acouainsances, the 

O family, there I's notlnag channs me 

mote tnan ^lr O. s unooncealable attachmen' 
to that -.ncotiiparable woman. Did yoa ever, 
mj dear Sjme, meet v,itli a man who owed 
more to the Divine Giver of all good things 
tbaa Mr O. ? A tine fortune; a pleasing 
exie.-ior ; self-evident amiable disposition*, and 
an ingenious upright mind, and that lutiiruied 
tv'O, much beyond'lhe usual run of youog fel- 
lofes of his rank and fortune ; anj to ail ibts, 
such a wcmon ! — but of ber f shall sa> i.oibing 
at all, in despa.rof savins any thing aa>.,i.aie j 
in my song, 1 ha»e endeavoured to Um ju»ne« 



BURNS. — LETTEK8. 



to wbM w<niM h« hta f?e51rf» oo seeing, in «h? 
ic>)ur. I !iv/» drawo, Ct>« Pabit*tioDof bis Luc^, 
Ai> I S3-, a poodde*! plMised with mj perform- 
sjtie, I io aij first fer»oQr tfaoa^ht of sendinfT 

it to Mr» O , bat ao Moood tbon^hts, 

perb«p« what I offer as th« hone»t incenne of 
gcboiae r«ip«ct, might, from the wtll-known 
•hftTiuJier of p<j»erty and pcftry, b« cooitnied 
into lome iBOCi^«3tion or oitrnr of that serrilitj 
hioJh mj toul abhon. * 



No. CXLIX. 
TO MISS . 

MADAM, 
Kotbin^ short of a kind of absolate n«ee9«it; 
Could bare made in« tronble you ^itb tbi« i>-t- 
tet. Except mj ardent and just esteem for 
joor Mose, taste, and worih, every seii(in>«iit 
arising in my breast, as I put pea tc pz^er to 
you, IS painfuL The scenes I hare pa^( witb 
the friend of my soul, and his amiable connez- 
ions t The wrench at my heart to thiuk 



• gon 



. for e' 



r gone 



to meet in the waaderiugg of a weary 
and the cutting retleuiion of all, that 1 had 
most uofortaoaielY, though most undeservedly. 
lost the conlidence of thai aoul of worth, ere it 
took its flight ] 

These, madam, are sensations of no ordinary 
anguisb. Howerer, you, aUo, may be otfead- 
ed with some imputea improprieltes of miue ; 
gensibiiity you kuovr I poes«8£, and ainMniy 
none will deuT me. 

To appose taoss prejudices which have been 
raised against me, is not the business of this 
letter. Indeed it is a wartare I -know not how 
to wage. The powers ut positive rice I can 
in some degree calculate, and against direzc 
DialeTolenoe I can be on my guard ; but who 
can estimate the faiuity of riddy caprice, or 
ward uiFtha unlbinkiug miscoief of precipitate 
folly r 

1 have a favour to request of you. madam, 

and of your sister Mrs , through your 

means. You kuow, that, at the wvsh of my 
lute friend, i niaJe a collectiou of all my tritiei 
iu verse which 1 had ever written. They are 
main uf them local, some of them puerile aod 
^1,.,, i.'.d all of them unfit for the public eye. 
i- I have some little fame at stake, a iaiup 
'-i:;ii i trust may live, when the hair of ico^e 
WHO "watch for my halting,'' and the con. 
uiineiious ineer of those whom accioent has 
uiad# my superiors, will, with lhe:nselves, De 
gone to the regions of oblivion ; 1 am uneasy 
now for the fate of those manuscripii. Will 

jVirs have tho goodness to destroy 

them, or return them to me ? As o pledge of 
friendship they were bestowed ; aud that cir- 
cum.tanoe, indeed, was all ibeir meriu Most 
unhappily for me, that merit they oo longer 

possess, aiid I hof^thai Mre 'g goodness. 

wbich I woU kuow, and ever will fevete, will 



oni refuse (his favour to a man wliora she once 
fapld in aotrte d<igr«e of estimation. 

With the Bincerest esteem 1 have the honimi 

bo, madam, &e. 



No. CL. 
TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

i^th Fdrmary, 1794. 
Canst then minister to a mind diseased f 
Caust thou speak peace and resttu a soul tossed 
on a see of troubles, without od« friendly star 
to gui je her course, and dreading chat the next 
surge may ov«rwheim her ? Canst thon give t© 
a frame tremblingly alive to the tortures ot 
suspense, the etobility and hardihood of the 
rock that braves the blast » If thou canst not 
do the least of these, wby wouldst then dis- 
turb me iu my miseries, with thy inquiries after 

For these two months I have not been able to 
lift a pen. My constitution and frame were, 
ab ori^int, b'.asted wiih a d-'pp incurable taint 
of hvpochondria, which poisons my existence. 
Of late a number of domestic vexations, and 
some pecuniary share in the ruin of these — — 
times ; losses which, though trifling, were yet 
what I could ill bear, have so irritated me, 
that mj feelings at times could only be --nvied 
by « reprobate spirit listening to the sentence 
that dooms if (o perdition. 

Are >oa deep in the language of consolation t 
I aa^e exhausted in rtfiectmn everj topic of 
co'cfort. A htart at ease would have been 
oharratd with my sentiments and reasonings} 
but as to myself, I was like Judas Iscariot 
preaching the' gospel t he might melt aod mould 
the heart! of those around him, but his own 
kep! Its naiive inMinrigibility. 

Sliil there are two great pillars that bear ns 
up, amid the wreck of misfortune and misery. 
1 he <me is composed fif the diHerent moditiea- 
lioQs of a certain noble, stubborn something in 
man, known by the iiameu of courage, fortitude, 
magnaminity. The other is made up of ihoee 
feeliiign and sentimunls, "which, however the 
Boepiic may deny them, or lh<i enthusiast dis- 
figure tbem, are yet, 1 am oonvinced, original 
and component parts of the hnman soul j thos* 
ter.tm of l.he mind, .f 1 may b^ allowed the ex- 
pression, which connect us with, and link urn 
lo, iboe awful obMuie realities — an all-power- 
fni "Liid equally beneiicent God j and a world U> 
come, beyond death fad the grave. The iirst 
gives the'nenro of eombat, while a ray of hope 
beams ou the field ;— tne Itst pours tne baim of 
comfort into the wounds which time can sever 






^ The MDg inclosed was the one begin 

lb 

•* O uai >• wtia's in yon town. '* 



I do not remember, my dear C>jnningbam, 
at you and I ever talked on the subject of 
relicTon at alU I know some who laogh at it, 
as tb.- iriek of the crafty ftWf to lead the aa- 
disc^i-uing manui or «t most as an «r^>«»!aio 
obscuriiv, vrbicii mankind can never kuow any 
thing of; and wi;h which they are fools it they 
(five the.ii'.<rl»« much to do. >or wonld I 
quarrel wilt a man for bis irreliirioc. ftny wotm 
thai: « woul^ for h't w9<.t of r.. :tni»ie*. ear. I 
would f egret that L* w»» sbi.1 «>ul Hoin what, 



156 



DlA>]OND CABINET LIBRARY. 



to ttJe and to others were such superlative 
Bourceg of enjoyment. It is in this point uf 
view, and for this reason, that I will deeply 
imbue the mind of every child of mine wiih 
reli^on. If my son should happen to be a man 
cf feeling, sentiment, and taste, I shall thus 
add largely to his enjoymeats. Let me flatter 
myself that this sweet little fellow who is just 
now running about my desk, will be a man of 
a melting, ardent, glowing heart : and an im- 
agination, delighted with the painter, and wrapt 
■with the poet. Let me tigure him, wandering 
out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy 
gales, and enjoy the growing luxuriance of the 
spring; himsielf the while in the blooming 
youth of life. He looks abroad on all nature, 
and through nature up to nature's God. His 
soul, by swift, delighting degree^, is wrapt 
above this sublunary sphere, until he can be 
silent no longer, and bursts out into the glori- 
ous enthusiasm of ThomsoQt 

« • These, as they change. Almighty Father, 

the varied God. The rolling year 
of thee. ' ' 

And so on, in all the epirit and ardoarof that 

charming hymn. 

Tbese are no ideal pleasures s they are 
deligbts, and I ask what of the delights among 
ttie sons of men are superior, not to say, equal 
to them ? And they have this precious, vatt 
addition, that conscious virtue stamps ihem 
for her own ; and lays bold on them to bring 
herself into the presence of a witnessing, judg- 
ing, and approving God. 



MADAM, 
I dare say this is the first epistle you ever re- 
ceived from this netlier world. 1 write you 
from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors of 
the damned. The time and manner of my 
leaving your earth I do not exactly know ; as 
I took my departure in the he„t of a fever of 
intoxication, contracted at your too hospitable 
mansion ; but on my arrival here, I was fairly 
tried and sentenced to endure the purgatorial 
tortures of this infernal confine, for the tpace 
of ninety-nvae years, eleven months, and 
twenty-nme days ; and all on account of the 
impropriety of my conduct yesternight under 
your roof. Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless 
fiurze, with my aching head reclined on a pil- 
low of ever piercing thorn, while an infernal 
tormentor, wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his 
name I think is Recollection, with a whip of 
scorpions, forbids peace or rest to approach me, 
and keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, 
madam, if I could in any measure be reinstated 
in the good opinion of the fair circle whom my 
conduct last night so much injured, I think it 
would be an alleviation to my torments. For 



this reason 1 trouble you with this letter. To 
the men of the company I will make no apo- 
logy — Your husband, who insisted on v\y 
drinking more than I chocie, bns no right to 
blame me ; and the other gentlemen were par- 
takers of my guilt. But to you, madam, I 
have much to apologize. Your good opinion 
I valued as one of the greatest acquisitions I 
had made on earth, and I was truly a beast to 

forfeit it. Inhere was a Miss I too, a 

woman of fine sense, gentle and unassuming 
manners — do make, on my part, a miserable 
d — d wretch's best apology to her. A Mrs 

G , a charming woman, did me the honour, 

to be prejudiced in my favour ; this makes 
hope that 1 have not outraged her beyond 
forgiveness.— To all the other ladies pleas 
present my humblest contrition for my conduct, 
and my petition for their gracious pardon. O, 
all ye powers of decency and decorum I whis- 
per to them that my errors, though great, were 
involunt&ry— that an intoxicated man is the 
vilest of beasts — that it was not in my nature 
to be brutal to any one — that to be rude to a 
woman, when in my senses, was impossible 
v/ith me — but — 



ase I 



Regret I Remorse I Shame ! ye three hell- 
hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my 
heels, spare me ; spare me I 

Forgive the oftences, and pity the perditi 
of, madam, your humble slave. 



TO MRS DUNLOP. 



1 



15th December, 1795. 

MY DEAR FRIKND, 
As I am in a complete Deceroberish humour, 
gloomy, sullen, stupid, as even the deity of 
L'ulness herself could wish, I shall not drawl 
out a heavy letter with a number of heavier 
apologies, for my laie silence. Only one 1 
shall mention, because I know you will sym- 
pathize in it: these four mouths, a sweet little 
giri, my youngest child, has been so ill, that 
every day, a week or less threatened to termi- 
nate her existence. There had much need be 
many pleasures annexed to the states of hus- 
band and father, for God knows, they have 
many peculiar cares. 1 cannot describe to you 
the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequent- 
ly give me. 1 see a train of helpless, little 
folks ; me and niy exertions all their stay : 
and on what a brittle thread does the life of 
man hang ! If 1 am nipt off at the command 
of fate ; even in all the vigour of manhood as 
I am, such thmgs happen every day —gracious 
God! what would become of my Ijttle flock 1 
'Tis here that 1 envy your people of fortune. — 
A father on his death-bed, taking an everlasting 
leave of his children, has indeed woe enough ; 
but the man of competent fortune leaves his 
sons and daughters independency and friends ; 
while 1— but 1 shall run distracted if I think 
any longer on the subject 1 

lo Irave talking ot the matter so gravely, I 
shall sing with the old bcot» ballad — 



riLRNS LETTERS. 



•• O that I had ne'er been mar 
1 would never had iiae care ; 

Vow I've gotten wife and bair 
Tnej crj, crow 



\n ye c 
Ye'li 



I'li crowdiea'niy meal a 



December 2\th. 
We have had a brilliant theatre here, this 
season ; only, as all other business has, it ex- 
periences a stagnation of trade from the epide- 
mical complaint of the country, u:ant of vask. 
1 mention our theatre merely to lug in an oc- 
casional Address, which I wrote for the benefit- 
light of one of the actresses, and which is as 



•^Z 



So, sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, 
Told him, I came to feast my curious eyes. 
Said, nothing like his works was ever print- 
ed ; 
And last, my prologue-business slily hinted.— 
♦'iMa'am, let me tell you, " quoth my man of 

rhymes ; 
•• I know your bent — these are no laughing 

times: 
Can you— but Miss, I own I have my fears. 
Dissolve in pause — and sentimenial tears — 
With laden sighs, and solemn rounded sen- 
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repent- 
ance ; 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand. 
Waving on high the desolating brand. 
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty 
land!" 

I could no more — askance the creature eye- 
ing. 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for cry- 

I'U laugh, that's poz — nay, more, the world 

shall know it ; 
And so, your servant—gloomy Master Poet. 



Firm as my creed, sirs, 'tis my fixed belief. 
That Misery's another word for Grief: 
I also think — so may I be a bride ! 
That so much laughter, so much life en- 
joyed. 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh. 
Still under bleak misfortune's blasting eye ; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three guineas do the work of live : 
Laugh in Misfortune's face— the beldam 

witch ! 
Sajr, you'll be merry, though you can't be 

rich. 



Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the 

Peerest to meditate the healing leap : 
VVouldst thou be cured, thou silly, moping elf. 
Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thy self : 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrilic. 
And love a kinder— that's your grand spe- 
cific — 

To si 



2bth, Christmas Morning. 
luch-loved friend, is a. morning of 
cept mine — so Heaven hear uie as 
ncere ! that blessings may attend 
and affliction know vou not I lu 
; words o 



This, my 

they are 

your step: 

the charming words of my favourite author. 

The Man of Feeling, "May the great Spirit 

bear up the weight of thy gray hairs ; and 

biunt the arrow that brings them rest !" 

Now that I talk of authors, how do jou 
like Cowper ? is not the Task a glorious poeui ? 
The religioa of the 2'asfc, bating a few scraps 
of Calvinistic divinity, is the religion of Ood 
and Nature: the religion that exalts, that en- 
nobles a man. Were not you lo send me your 
Zeluco in return for mine ? Tell me how you 
like my marks and notes through the book. I 
woula not give a farthing for a book, unless 
I were at liberty lo blot it with my crili- 

I have lately collected, for a friend's perusal, 
all my letters ; I mean those which I first 
sketched, in a rough draught, and afterwards 
wrote out fair. On looking over some old 
musty papers, which from time to time I had 
parcelled by, as trash that were scaroe worth 
preserving, and which yet, at the same time, 1 
did not care to destroy, 1 discovered many of 
those rude sketches, and have written, and am 
writing them out, in a bound MS. for my 
friend's library. As I wrote always to you 
the rhapsody of the moment, I cannot find a 
single scroll to you, except one, about the 
commencement of our acquaintance. If (here 
were any possible conveyance, I would send 
you a perusal of my book. 



TO MRS DUNLOP, IN LONDON. ' 

Dumfries, 20th December, 1795. 
I have been prodigiously disappointed in this 
London journey of yours. In the first place, 
when your last to me reached Dumfries, 1 was 
d did not r 



late 



r letter 



t plac 



I thought you would certainly take this route ; 
and now I know not what is become of you, 
or whether this may reach you at ali. God 
grant that it may fintf you and yours in pros- 
pering health and good spirits. Do lul las 
hear from you the soonest possiblt*. 



DIArONO CAflirvET LIB&AAY^ 



158 

As I bo^ to cet a frank ftom my fneotl 
Captom iMiiler, I shall, evary leisure hour, 
bike xtp the pen, and gosgip avray whatever 
comes fere*, prusa or poesy, sermon or toag. 
In tfaU last anic3ri, 1 b»r» abouoiied of late. 
I have often nMntioned to jou a snperb publi- 
cation of Sooftish SODA'S which is making its 
Eppearaane ia youi great taetropolis, and where 
I havo the honcrar to preside o»er the Scottish 
versa, aa no less a personage thrji Poter Pin- 
dar does over the Gaulish. I wiota the fol- 
lowing for e. ta/ourite air. 

December 29. 
Since 1 be»an this letter I hare i»e#n appointed 
to act in the capacity of supervisor bere, and I 
usure yon, what wuh the ioad of tusiness. and 
what with that business beiug new to me, I 
eonld scarcely have commanded ten minutes to 
hare spoken to you* had you been in town, 
much less to hare written you an epistle. 
This appointment is onlv temporary, and dur- 
ing the illness of the present iiicuuibent ; but 
1 look forward to an early period when I shall 
be appoiuied in full form ; a consummation 
deroutly to be wished 1 My political sins 
seem to be forgiyea me. 

Tbh is the season 'New-year's day is now my 
«Jate) of wishing ! and mine are most ferver.tly 
offered up for yon ! May life to you be a 
positiTe bleasin? while it lasts, for your own 
sake ; and that it may yet be greatly prolonged, 
is my wish for toy owa sake, and for the sake 
of ihe rest of your friends J ^Vhat a transient 
bnsisese is life ! Very lately 1 was a boy ; 
Cut t'other day I was a young man ; and I 
already bcfrin to feel ihe ri^d ribre d.nd slitien- 
iiig joiiitb of old age coming fast o'er my frame. 
With ail my follies of youlL, aiic. I fear, a few 
vices of manhood, still 1 eoujratuUte myself 
on having had, in early days, relit'iou strongly 
impre^sed on my mind. I have noliiiiig to say 
to any one as to which sect be belongs to, or 
what creed he believes ; but I look ou the man 
who is tirmly persoaded of infinite wit-dom and 
goodness; superintending and directing every 
circumstance that ean happen in his lot — I 
felicitate such i ni&o as having a solid founda- 
tion for his mental eajoyment ; a firm prop and 
«OT«> sUy, ill the hour of difficuitv, trouble, and 
distress i and a neTer-faLliug aiiehur of hope^ 
when he looks beyond the grave. i 

Jasmary 18. I 

You will have §een onr worthy and ingsuious 
ft'iend, the Doctor, long ere this. I hope he 
is well, and beg to be remembered to him. I 
have jtist been reading over again, I dare say, 
for the htuidred and fiftieth time, his Vietc of 
Society and XanasTt f and still I read it with 
deUgfat. His bataoar is perfectly original — it 
b neither the hamoor of Addisoa, nor Swift, 
nor Sterne, nor of any body but Dr Moore. 
By the bye, yoa hav« deprived me of Zeluco ; 
icccember that, whan yoa ar« dispoaed to rake 
ap the sins of my ae^l«^ tiom among the a^hes 
Ot laziness. 

He has paid ma a pretty compliment, by 
qsuCiog iu« m his last publication. * 



No. CUT. 

TO MBS 

iOthJamuny, llfH 
I cat^not express my gratitude to yoa .^« 
ailewiiig me a loogtr perwal of Anac/utrsig. 
In f^, I never met with a book that bewitched 
me so much ; and £, as a membw of the library, 
must warmly feel th« obii^iion yon faaie laid 
OS under. Indeed to mo the obligation is 
stronger than to tny othor individual of our 
society; as AiuzcKarsis is an indispensable de- 
sideratum to a iuu of th - 



The health you wished me in yoni 
-'' card, is, I think, flown from 






•■»'"» IB, X uuna, sown irom me ro 

I ba^e not been able to leave mj bed 

to-day, till about an hour ago. Thebe wicfr- 
edly unlucky advertisements I lent (1 did 
wrong) to a friend, and I am ill able to go in 
quest of him. 

The muses have not quite forsaken me. 
The following det«hed stanaas I intend to 
iivterweare in wme disa* trous tale of a shep- 
herd. 



No. CLV. 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

3lsi Jamiary, 179a. 
These many months you have been two pack« 
ets in my debt— what sin of ignorance 1 hava 
committed against so highly valued a friend, I 
am utierly at a loss to guess. Alas ! madam, 
ill can I afford at this time, to be deprived of 
any of the small remnant of my pleasures. I 
have lately drunk deep of the cup of atiiiction. 
The autumn robbed me of my only daughter 
and darling child, and that at a distance too, 
and so rapidly, as to put it obi of my power to 
pay the last duties to her. I had scarcely be- 
gun to recover from that shock, when I became 
myself the victim cf a most severe rheumatic 
fever, and long the die spun doubtful j until, 
after many weeks of a sict bed it seems to 
have turnea np life, and I am beginning to 
crawl across my room, and once indeed liave 
been before my own door in the street. 

TVTien pleasure fascinates the mental sight. 

Affliction purifies the visual ray, 
Religion hails the drear, the untried night. 

That shuts, for ever shuts, life's t^uhtftil 
day. 



No. CLVI. 
TO MRS E , 

WHO HAD DBSIXBD BIM TO GO TO THB 
BIRTH-DAT ASSBMBtY OW THAT DAT 
TO SHOW HIS UiYAJ^TJ. 

m June. 1796. 
1 am in each E.fe«rabUi health !is to ^ otfrlj 
lucttpablo of showitig 'cy loyalty in any way. 



« 



BURNS.— UBTTERS. 



Raeked as I ub wita rtwnmatisn.s, I meet 
every face with * groeting likf thai of Balat t< 
Balmam — ** Come, eune m« Jacob ; andoome, 
defy me Israeli ' ' So gay I, Ck>me, carno me 
that east wibu ; and come, defy me the north i 
Woald yoQ have nie> in each cixcamst&aces, to 
copy yon out a love soog f 

I may perhaps see you on Saturday, bat I 
will not be at the balL 'Why 8^wald If ** man 
delights Qot me, hot womaja <4itbur '." Cau ynu 
■cpply me with the nonj;. Let us jli be unhappy 
togetfier i Do, if you cas, and oblige le pautn-e 



Nfc CLVII. 

TO MR CUNNINGHAIM. 

Broto, Sea-lx^tTig Qtiarlers, Itk July, 1796. 

MY DkAK CDNNINOHAM, 
I received yonrs here this moment, and am 



kinpaoma. 



ole inferior to none in the t 
Alas 1 my friend, 1 fear the toi 
will scon be heard among you no more: ror 
these eight or ten months I have been ailing, 
■ometimes bedfast and eomelimea not ! but 
these laat three months I have been tortnred 
with an excruciating rbenmatism, which has 
ledaced me to nearly the last stage. You ac- 
tually would not know aie if joa saw me. 
Paie, emaciated, and so feeble as occasionally 
to ueeJ help from, my chair — my spirits lied ! 
fled 1 — but I can uc more on the' subject ; only 
the medical folks tell me that aiy last and only 
chance is bathing and country quarters, aud 
riding. I'he deuce of the matler is tnis ; wben 
an exciseman is otf duty, his salary is reduced 
t« L.35 insieaa of L. 50. What way, in the 
name of thrift, shall I maintain myself and 
kwp a horse in country quarters, witli a wife 
and five children at home, on L,35 ? I men- 
tion this, because I had intended Co beg your 
utmost interest, and th;it of ail tne friends you 
can mnster, to move our Commissiucers of 
Excise to grant me the full salary. 1 dare say 
you know them ail personally, if they do not 
grant it me, I must lay my account w>lh an 
exit truly en poete ,- if I die not of disease, I 
must perish with hunger. 

I have sent you one of the <«ODgg ; the other 
my memory does not serve me with, and I have 
no copy here ; but I shall be at home soon, 
when 1 will send it you. Apropos to being at 
borne, Mrs Burns threatens in a week or two 
to add one more to my paternal charge, which, 
if of the right gender, I intend shall be in- 
troduced to the world by the respectable deiiig- 
nation of Alexander Cujiningfuim Burtts i 
ily last James Glencaiin i so you can 



No. CLVIII. 
TO MRS BURNS. 

ed writing until I eoald tell yoQ what 
effect tea-batf.ing was likely to j>roduce. it 
would be tajnstice to deny that it has eased 
my pains, and I think has strengthened tne; 
but "ray appetite is still fcj<triin6ly bad. Nij 
riesh Dor Dsh can I swallow ; porridge and 
milk are the only tiling 1 cau taste. I am very 
happy to hear by Mii-* Je-« Lcwnrs, that yon 
are welL aiy very best and kindest eomp:i- 
meiif* to her and to all the children. I will 
Sunday. Your afleciionate hu»- 






& B. 



No. CLCX. 

TO MRS UUNLOP. 

MADAM, MthJuly, 1790. 

I have written yon so often, without receiving 
any answer, that I would not trouble you again, 
but for the circumstances in which I am. An 
illness which has long hung about me, in all 
probability will speedily send me beyond ili.u 
bourne tcheiics no '.raveller returns. Your 
friendship, with which for many years you 
honoured me, was a friendship dearest to my 
seuL Your conversation, and especially your 
ai once highly entertain- 
With what pleasure did 
eal ! The remembrance 
:e to mj poor palpitating 

R. B. 



correspondeuC'?, 



The above is anpposed to be the last produc- 
tion of Robert Burna, who died ua the 81st of 
the month, nine days afterwards He had» 
however, the pleasure of receiving a satisfac- 
tory explanation of his friend's silence, aud aa 
assurance of the continuance of her frieDdship 
to his widow and children < an assurance that 
has been amply fulblled. 

It is probable that the greater part of her 
letters to him were destroyed by our bard about 
the time that this last was written. He did 
not foresee that his own letters to her were to 
appear in print, nor conceive the disappoiat- 
nient that will be felt, that a few of this excel- 
lent lady's have not served to enrich &ndad»wn 
the voUectioo. 



li 



THE POEMS 



ROBERT BURNS. 



1 



NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN 



CALEDONIAN HUNT 



A Scottish Bard, proad of the name, and 
Ifhose highest ambition is to sing in his 
Country's service — where shall be so properlj 
look for patronage as to the iUustrious names 
of his native Land ; those who bear the hoa- 
©ars and inherit the rirtues of their Ancestors ? 
The Poetic Geniua of my Country foand me, 
as the prophetic barl Elijah did Elisha — at 
the plough; and threw her inspiring mantle 
over me. She bade me sing the loves, the 
joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of 
' my native soil, in my native tongue ; I tuned 
my wild, artless notes, as she inspired — She 
whispered me to come to this ancient Me- 
tropolis of Caledonia, and lay my songs under 
Tour honoured protection ( I now obey her dic- 
ates. 

Though much indebted to your goodness, I 
do not approach you, my Lords and Gentle- 
men, in the usual style of dedication, to thaiik 
you for past favours ; that path is so hackneyed 
by prostituted learning, that honest rusticity is 
ashamed of it. Nor do I present this Address 
with the venal soul of a servile Author, look- 
ing for a continuation of those favours : I was 
bred to the Plough, and am independent, I 
come to claim the common Scottish name with 
you, my illustrious Countrymen ; aud to tell 
the world that 1 glory in the title. I come to 
tcagr^alnut my Country, that the blood of her 



T ancient heroe* ^III rtmi nncontaminated ; and 
J that from yoar courage, kuowledge, and pnblia 
I spirit, she mev tKpect protection, wealth, and 
I liberty. In the last place, I come to proffer 
I my wartuest wishes to the Great Fountain of 

Honour, the IMonarch of the Unirerse, for 

yosr welfare and happiness. 



your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your 
party ; GJid may social joy await your return : 
When harassed in courts or camps with the 
jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may 
the honest eonscioosness of injtu-ed worth 
attend yotir return to your native Seats ; and 
may Domestic Happiness, with a smiling wel- 
come, mfcet yon at your gates ! iMay corruption 
shrink at your kindiiing indignant glance ; and 
may tyranny in the Iluler, and licentiousness 
in the People, equally find jroa &» inexorabls 
foel 

I have the honour to be. 

With the sincerest gratitnde, 
and highest respect. 

My Lordf and Gentlemeut, 
Tour most devoted humble eervanty 

KOBERT BU£I«S» 



POEMS, 

CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 



THB TWA DOGS i 



' TwM In that place o' Scolland's isle, 
Hiat b«an the name o* Auld Kitig Coil, 
Upon 8 bonaie day in June, 
When wearing thro* the afternoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hanje» 
Forgather'd onoe upon a time. 

The first I'll name they ca'd him Casart 
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure; 
Hia hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Bhow 'd he was nans o' Scotland's dogs } 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
■Where sailors gang to fish for cod- 

His locked, letter 'd, braw brass collar 
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar i 
But tho' he was o' high degree. 
The tient a pride,na pride had he ; 
But wud hae spent an hour caressin*, 
Ev'n with a tinkler gipsey's messin'. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie. 
But he wad stan't, a< glad to see him. 
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. 

The tilher was a plonghman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
>Vha for his f <end an' comrade had him. 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him. 
After some dog in Highland sang,* 
Was made lang syne— Lord knows how lang. 

He waa a gash an' faithfu' tyke. 
As erer lap a sheugh or dyke. 
His honest, sonsie, bawsent face. 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward cnrl. 
Hung o'er his hardies wi' a swurL 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' itber. 
An' unoo pack an' thick thegithei ; 
Wi' fiooial nose whyle? snuff'd and suowkit ; 
Whylea mice and moudieworts they howkit^ 



Whyles scour'd awa in lang 
An' worry 'd ither in diversion , 
Until wi daffin weary grown. 
Upon a knowe they Rat them down. 
And there began a lang digression. 
About the lonis o' the creatUia, 



Vf« aften wonder 'd, honest Lutdki 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you ha^rsf 
An' when the gentry 's life I saw. 
What way poor bodies liv'd ara. 

Onr Laird gets in his racked rents. 
His coals, his knin, and a' his stents I 
He rises when he likes himsel' ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell ; 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bonnie pilken purse. 
As lang 's my tail, whare, thro' the stceks. 
The yeilow letter 'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae mom to e'en its nought but toiling. 
At baking, roasting, frving, boiling ; 
An' tho' the gentry first are stechin'. 
Yet cT'n the ha' folk liU their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashlrie. 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our Whipper-in, wew blastit wonner. 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner. 
Better than ony tenant man 
His Honour has in a' the Ian' : 
An' what poor cot-folk pit their palncfa io, 
I own ita past my comprehDUdiuii. 



they're fa«bt 



y Caohullin'g dog in Otaian't Fingal. 



Trowth, Cesar, -whyle 
eneugh ; 
A cotter howkin in a sfacugh, 
Wi' dirty stones biggin a dyke, 
B.iring a quarry, and sio like, 
Himsel', a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee duddie weana. 
An' nought but his han' darg, to keep 
Them light and tight in thack an* rape. 

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters. 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters. 
Ye raaist wad think, a wee toacli laii^c^r. 
In' they maun starve o' cauld au' hunger; 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



But, how It comes, I never kenn'd yet. 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented; 
An* buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies. 
Are bred in sacb a way as this is. 



But then to see how ye 're negleckit, 
How huff M, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit i 
t— d, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor folk, 
As I wad by a stinking brock. 

I've notioM en our Laird's court day, 
An' tnony a time my heart's been wae. 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash. 
How they maun thole a factor's snssh ; 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear. 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun Stan', wi' aspect humble. 
An' hear it a', an' fear im' tremble I 



They're nae sae wrefched's ane wad think; 
Tho' constantly on poortiih's brink : 
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, 
The view o't gies them little fright. 

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided. 
They're uye in less or mair provided ; 
An' tho' fatigued wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
rheir grushie weans and faithfu' wives ; 
The prattlin things are just their pride 
That sweetens a' their tire-side. 

An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy ; 
They lay aside their private cares. 
To mind the Eirk and State affairs : 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, 
Or tell what new taxation's comin', 
A nd ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns, 
They get the jovial, rantin' kirns. 
When rural life, o' every station. 
Unite in common recreation : 
Love blinks. Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins. 
They bar the door on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream 
An ' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 
The luntin' pipe, and sneeshin' mill. 
Are handed round wi' right guid will : 
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, 
The young anes rantin' thro' the house, — 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
Xtiat I for joy hae barkit wi ' them. 

Still it's ovrre true that ye hae said. 
Sic game ifi now owre aften play 'd. 
There's mony a creditable stock 
O ' decent, honest, fawsont folk, 



I 



Are riven ont baith root and branch. 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha tliinks to knit himself the faster 
In favours wi' some gentle master, 
Wha aiblins thrang. a-parliamentin'. 
For Britain's gaid his saul indentin'— 

Haith, 'ad, ye little ken about it : 
For Britain'n gnid ;— guid faith, I doubt it t 
Say, rather, gaun as Premiers lead him. 
An' saying aye cr no's they bid him : 
At operas an' plays parading. 
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ; 
Or may be, in a frolic daft. 
To Ha^ue or Calais takes a waft. 
To mak a tour, and tak a whirl, 
To learn 6071 ton and see the warl'. 

There, at Vienna, or VersaiUeSf 
He rives his father's auld entails I 
Or by Madrid he takes the rout. 
To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowt ; 
Or down Italian vista startles, 
Wh— re-hunting among groves o' myrtle* 1 
Then bouses drumly German water. 
To mak himsel ' look fair and fatter. 
An' clear the consequential sorrows. 
Love gifts of Carnival Signora's. 
For Britain's guid / — for her destruction 1 
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' factioii. 

rUATH. 
Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate I 
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last ! 

O would they stay aback frae courts. 
An' please themselves wi' countia sports. 
It wad for eve'ry ane be better. 
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter! 
For thae frank, rantin', raroblin' billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill hearted fellows ; 
Except for breakin' o' their timmer. 
Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer. 
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock. 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me. Master Ccesar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure J 
Nae canld or hunger ere can steer them. 
The very thought o't need na fear them. 



CSSAR. 

L — d, man, were ye but whyles where I 

The gentles ye wad ne'er envy them. 

It's true, ihey need na starve or sweat. 
Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark io craze their banes. 
An' fill auld age wi' gripes an' granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools. 
For a' their colleges an' schools. 
That when nae real ills perplex ihem. 
They mak enow themselves to v^x mem. 
An' aye the less they hae to sturt tnem. 
In like proportion les-s will hurt lueni. 
A country fpllow at the plengb, 
llis acres till'd, he's right eueugUi 



BURNS.— POEMS. 



X country girl at her wheel, 
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel ; 
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless ; 
An' ev'a their sports, their balls, an' races> 
Their gallopin' through public places. 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art. 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches. 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches : 
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' whoring, 
x<Jeist day their life is past enduring. 
The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters. 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither. 
They're a' run deils an' jads fhegither. 
Whyles o'er the wee bit cup an plaitie. 
They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Or lee lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks 
Pore uwre the devil's pictured beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard. 
An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man an' woman ; 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this the sun was out o' sight ; 
An' darker gloaming brought the night. 
The bum-clock humm''' wi' lazy drone ; 
The kye stood rowtia' i' the loan : 
When up they gat an shook their lugs. 
Rejoiced they were na men but dogs g 
And each took aflf his several way» 
Resolved to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 



Gie him strong drink, until he wink, 

That's sinking in despair ; 
An' liquor guid to lire his bluid. 

That's prest wi' grief an' care ; 

There let him bouse, and deep carouse* 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er. 
Till he forgets his Urves or debts. 

An' minds his griefs no more. 

Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7. 



Let other poets raise a fracas, 

'Bout vines, and wines, and drunken Bacchus, 

An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us. 

An' grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scots bear can mak us. 

In glass or jug. 

O Thou, my Miise ' guid auld Scotch Drink j 
Whether thro' wimpling worms thou jink, 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink. 

In glorious faem, 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink, 

To sing thy name. 



An' Pease and Beans at e'en or mora^ 
Perfume the plain, 

Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 
Thou king o' grain I 

On thee aft Scotland chows her coo«. 
In souple scones, the wale o' food! 
Or tumblin' in the boiling flood, 

Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when t^ou pours thy strong heart's blood* 

There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin' ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin'. 
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grievin'} 

But oil'd by thee. 
The wheels o* life gae down-hill, scrievin', 

Wi' rattlin' glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair 

At's weary toil ; 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy silver weed, 
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head ; 
Yet humbly kind in time o' need, 

The poor man's wine. 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread. 

Thou kitchens fine. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts : 
But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 
Ev'u godly meetings o' the saunts. 

By thee inspired. 
When gaping they besiege the tents. 

Are doubly fired. 

That merry night we get the corn in, 
O sweetly then ihou reams the horn in I 
Or reekin' on a New-year mornin' 
In cog or bicker. 
An' just a wee drap sp ritual burn in. 
An' gusty sucker ! 

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath. 
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 
O rare '. to see the iizz an' freath 

I' the lugget caup ! 
Then Bumewin*- comes on like death 
At ev'ry chap. 

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel'. 
Brings hardowrehip, wi' sturdy wheel. 

The strong forehammer. 
Till block an* studJie ring and reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 

When skirlin weanies see the light. 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. 
How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight, 
Wae worth the name I 
Nae howdie gets a social night. 

Or plack frae them. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



How easj can the barlei; brm 

Cement the quarrel ; 

It's ays thi cLeap^t lawyer's fee, 

To tastd the barreL 



Ala>re I that e'er mj Muse has rea&on, 
To wjte her couatrjoien wi' treason j 
But moaj dailj weet their weasou 

Wi' liquors nicej 
An' bardlj, in a winter's season, 

£ 'er spier her prioe. 



Was worth that trondy, burning trash t 
Fell Booree o' nionie a pain an' bra.-h ! 
Twins monie a poor, doTlt, drunken hash, 

O' half hiS days; 
An' sendii, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 



Ye Scots, wha wish anid Scotland well 1 
Ye, chief, to yon my uiia I tell. 
Poor plackl«s8 derils like mysel' I 

It sets yon ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell. 

Or foreign gilL 



May grayela round his blather wreuch. 
An' gouts tormeat hin. inch by inch, 
Wha twisu hia gruntls wi ' a gii^ch 

O' sour disdain. 
Out owre a glass o' ushisky ptairJi 

Wi' honest ineo. 



Whisky ! sml o' plays an pranks I 
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks 1 
"NVhen wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 

Are my poor verses ! 
Thou comes — the? rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a— s ! 



Thee, F^rinto$h ! sadly lost I 
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast 
Ru4v colic grips, an barkin' boast, 

May kill us a'; 
For loyal Forbes' charter'i boast 



Is ta'en a 



I'l 



Thae curst horse leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wha mak the Whisky SuU.s their prize ! 
Haud up thy han', Deill auce, twice, thrice ! 

There, seize the blinkers J 
An' bake them up in brunsiane pies 

For poor d d drinkers. 



Fortune ! if thou '11 but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, an' Wkiiky gill, 
Aa' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, 

Tak a' the rest. 

An* deal't aboat as thy Uii.d skill 

Direcu thee besU 



TBB AOTHOR'S 

EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER* 

TO THB 

SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVliS 

IB THB 

HOUSE OP COMMONS. 



Parody on MilUn. 



Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires* 
AVha represent oar biughia an' shires. 
And doucely manage our affairs 

In parliameot, 
Tojoa a simple Poet's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Aias I my ronpet muse is hearse ! 
Your hoijoars' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierM 
To see bar sittin ' on her a — 

Low i' the dust, 
An' Bcreichin' out prosaic verse. 

An* like to brust . 

Tell them wha hae the chief directior 
Scotland an' trie's in great aSlictior, 
£ 'er sin' they laid that cursed restriction 

On AquaviUe ; 
An' rouse them up to Mroog conTicfion 

An' move theo- pity. 

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Yoidh, 
The honest, open, naked truth : 
Tell him o' mine an' Scotiaiid's drouth. 

His servants humble : 
The muckle devU blaw ye south. 

If ve disi>emble ! 

Doesony great man gluncb an* gloom f 
Speak out, an' never fash your thumb ; 
Let posts an' pensions sink or soora, 

Wi' them wha grant 'em ; 
If honestly they eanna come. 

Far better want 'em. 



In gath' 



■ing votes ye were na slack ; 

as tightir by your tack ; 
your lug, an' lidge your back. 



Paint Scotland greeting owre her thristle; 
Her mmchkinstoup as loom's a whistle, 
An' d d Excisemen in a bustle, 

Seizin' a stell. 
Triumphant crushin't like a mussel. 

Or lampit shell. 



*■ This was written b«for« ths aet anent tho 
Scotch Distilleries, of session 17S6; for whisk 
8«otland end the Author retura their moM 
grtfe&Lthaoka. 



BURNS.— POEMS. 



Ttien on the 'ithcr hand pr»«9<»nt hw, 
tk bl&ckgaard Smuggler right b«hmt her. 
An' che(>^-£aT-chow, a cfanffie Vintim, 

Coileaguing join, 
Piokhg ber pooch m ban aa Tvinlex 

Of a' kind coiu. 

Is there, that bears the naran r»» Stv(^ 
But frels hii keert's blcid ri»flg luii. 
To see his poor add Mither 'e pr>< 

Thoa dung ii; staves, 
Aa* plnnder'd i> uei hindm-^st great 

By gaiiowa kna^os t 

Alas ! Pm bnt a BaiE«l«a3 wlghJ, 
Trode i " the mire ont o ' right 1 
But could I like ^ionigomeries fight. 

Or gab like Bo«\:%eL, 
There's 6om© sark-neck* I wad draw tight. 
An' tie some hose ^relL 

God blftM yonr Honours, can'ye see't, 
The kind, auid, cantie Cajriin gre«t. 
An' m» get warmlj to your feet. 

An' gar them hear it. 
An' tell them vn' a patriot heat. 

Ye winna bear it I 

Some o' yon nicely ken the laws. 
To round the period an* pause. 
An' wi' rhetorio clanse on clatiso 

To teak hanuignes t 
Then echo thro' St Stephen's was 

Aula Sc*>tl!CMl 's wrangs. 

Demptter, a tme bine Scot I'ae warran ; 
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Xt/JfefrrtW}*' 
An" that glib-gabbec Hisrhland Baron, 

The Laird o' GmJiam ;f 
Aa ane, a chap that's dnmn'd auidfairan, 
Dundat hij nama. 

ErsJdtie, a spnnte'e Norland bUlifl j 
Trne Cowip&eUi, Frederick an* iTay ; 
An' Ijivinssione, the baald Str IV'^^ ) 

Aq' mony ithcrs. 
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tally 

Might own for brithora. 

Aronse, my boyi ! exert yoor mettle. 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle ; 
Or faith 1 I'll wad my new pleugb-p«ttle» 

Ye'Usee'toriang, 
She'll teach you, wi' a retkin' whittle, 
Anither saag. 

This while she's been in cank'rotu mood. 
Her loet MiUtia fired her bluid ; 
(Ddl oa they iie>-er mair do guid, 

Piay'd her that pliskie !) 
An* DOW she's like to rin red-wnd 

About her Whisky, 

An' L— d if ance they pit her till't. 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kiit, 
An' dork an' pistol at her belt. 

Shell tak the streets, 
Aa' ria her whittle to the hilt, 

I' the lirst she meets , 



V'lT Q — A sake, S'rs I then ppt^ ber fair. 
An' stroii her canaie ^i' the hjtu. 
An' to the maoklb house repair, 

Wi' icBtant speed. 
An' strive wi' a' yonr wit an l^ar. 

To get reiread. 

Ycu :ll-tongnod tinkler, CMriie fhxt 
y. \; taaat yon vri' his jeers an' mocks ; 
Bnt gie him't het, my hearty cock* ! 

E'en cowe the caddie ! 
An' send him to his dicing box 

An' sportin' lady. 

Tell yon guid blnid o' auld BocOTmocir's, 
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bannocks, 
An' drink his health in auld Nanx Tinnock'i^ 

>iine times a-week. 
If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, 

Wad kindly seek. 

Conld he some txtmmuiaticm. broach, 
PU pledgrt my aith in guid braid Scotch) 
Ue need na fear their foul reproach 

Nor erudicion. 
Yon nuj^ie-maxtie qneer hotch-potch* 

The Coalitiou. 

Auld Scotland has a rancle tongue ; 
She's just a deevil wi' a rung; 
An' if she promise auld or voong 

To tak their part, 
Tbo' by the neck she shonld be strung. 

She'll no desert. 

An' now, ye chosen Five-and- Pyriy, 
May still your Mither's heart sr;pport • gi 
Then, tho* a Minister grow dorty. 

An' kick your plac» , 
Ye'Ll snap yoor fingers, poor an' b« «tj. 

Before his faco. 

God bless yonr Honours a' vonr days, 
Wi' sonps o' kail and brats o claise> 
In spite ©•' a' ths thievish kacs 

That haunt S< Jamie's .* 
Yooi huinhle pswl sings an' pra>5 

While iiai tu3 name vs. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let half-starved slaves, in warmer skies, 
S*e fiuarp wines, rich clnsteri:ig rise ; 
Their lot anld Scotland ne'er envies. 

But blithe and frisky. 
She ey« her fireeborn martial bovs, 

Tak aff their \\'hL<k7. 

"What tho* their Phoebus kinder warms. 
While fragrance blooms end beauty charms / 
When wretches range, iu. famish'd swarms^ 

The scented groves. 
Or hoanded forth dishonour arms 

la hungry droves. 



♦ A worthy old Hostess of the Author's ii 
* Sir Adam Ferguson. 'ifauchline, whe^e he sometimes studied Politic 

t Tbe present Duke of Montro««. —(1800,) I over a glass of guid auld Scotch Drink, 



DUMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Their bauldest tbonght's a har.K ring switBer 

To Stan' or rin. 
Till ikelp — a shot — they're afF, a' throwther. 

To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Cl::p in h.s cheeic a Highland gill, 
Sa/, such is rojal George's will, 

An ' there's the foe. 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 

Naecanld, faint-hearted doublings tease him; 
Death comes, with fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies h'.m ; 

An' when he fa's, 
Qis latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him 

1' faint huzzas. 

Sages their solemn een may steek, 
Au' raise a philosophic reek, 
iu ' physically causes seek, 

III clime an' season ; 
But tell me "miisky's name in Greek, 

I'U tell the reason. 

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither ! 
Ibo' nhyles ye moistify your leather, 
T. 1 whare you sit, on craps o' heather. 

Ye tine your dam ; 
(F> -edom and Whisky gang thegither !) 

Tak aft' your dram ! 



THE HOLY FAIR.* 



A rol e of seeming truth and trust 

HiL crafty Observation ; 
And secret hung with poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask that like the gorget show'd 

Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 
Aiid for r. mantle large and broad, 

hie wrapt him in Religion. 

Hj/pocriiy-a-la- mode. 



Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 

NV heu Nature's face was fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn. 

An' snuff the ca.ler air. 
The rising sun owre Gaistou muirs, 

VVi' glorious light was glintin'. 
The uares were hirpling down the furs, 

fhe laT'rocks they were chantin' 
h'u' sweet that day. 

XL 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad 

To see a scene sae gae. 
Three hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelping up the way ; 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, 

But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
The third that gaed a wee a-back. 

Was is the fashion shining 

Fu' gay that day. 



III. 

The Itca appeared like sisters lirioy 

In feature, form, an' claes : 
Their visage wither'd, lang, an' tlik.- 

An' sour as ony slaee ; 
The third came up, hap-stap-an'-leap> 

As light as ony iammie. 
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop. 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 

IV. 

Wi' bannet aff, quoth I, < Sweet la* 

I think ye seem to ke-n me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face. 

But yet Icannanameye.' 
Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak, 

An' tak's me by the hands, 
" Ye, for my sake, ha'e gi'en the fe«> 

Of a' the ten commands 

screed some day. 



"My name is Fun — your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye ha'e; 
A);' this is SuperstUion here, 

Au' that's Uypoe)-isy. 
I'm gauu to Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in daffin' ; 
Gin ye'll go there, yon rankled pair 

We will gel famous laughin' 

Ai them this day. " 

VI. 

Quoth I, • With a' my heart I'U do't 

ril get my Sunday's sark on. 
An' meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith, we'se haefine remarkin'I' 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie lime. 

All' soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side to side, 

Wi' muuie a weary bodis. 

In droves chat day. 

vn. 

Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith 

Gaeu hoddiu by their cotters : 
There swankies young, in braw braid claitk 

Are tpringin' e'er the gutters. 
The la=ses skelpin' barefoot, thrang. 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' iwtet-milk cheese in monie a wha 

Au'/un'« baked wi' butter, 

Fu' crump that day. 

VIII. 

When by the plaie we set our acse» 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Biack Bonnet tlirowg. 

An' »e maun draw our tippeuce. 
Then in we go to see the show. 

On ev'ry side they're gaiherin'. 
Some carrying deals, some chairs an' stookf 

Au' some are busy bletherin', 

Bight loud that day. 

IX. 

Here stands a shed to fend the sbow'rs. 

An' screen our countra Gentry, 
There racer Jess, an' twa three 'whorei» 

Are blinkln' at the entry. 

Wi' lieavin' breast ai;d bars seek, 
Au' theie a iiatch uf wabotei Udsy 



BURNS. -POEJMS 



Here some are thinkin' on their sinsi 

An' some upo' their claes ! 
Ane cnrses feet that fyled his shinsy 

Anither sighs an' prajs : 
On tkis hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd-up grace-proud faces $ 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin' on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 

XI. 

O happy is the man an' blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Wha's ain d^ar lass, that he likes hest, 

Comes clinkia' down beside him I 
iVi' arm reposed ou toe chair-back, 

He sweetly does compose him ! 
"Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

Aa's loof upon her bosom 

Unkenn'd that day. 

XII. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation ; 
For speels the holy door 

"NVi' tidings o* damnation. 
Should Uornie, as in ancient days, 

'AJang sons o' God present him. 
The vera sight o' 's face, 

To's ain het hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 

XIIL 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith 

Wi' raltlin' an' wi' ibnmoin' .' 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath. 

He's stampin' an' he's jumpin' ! 
His lengthened chin, his turned-up snout, 

His eldritch squeel and gestures, 
Oh, how they hre the heart devout> 

Like caatharidian plasters 

On sic a day ! 

XIV. 
But hark ! the lent has changed its voice ; 

There's peace and rest nae longer; 
For a' the real judses rise. 

They canna sit for anger. 
• opens out his cauld harangues 

On practice and oa morals ; 
An' afl" the godly pour in thrangs. 

To gie the jars an' barrels 

A lift that day. 

XV. 

What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral powers and reason ? 
His English style, an' gesture fine, 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan Hpathen, 
The moral man he does define. 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 

XVL 

In guid time comes an antidote 
Against sic poison'd nostrum : 

.or , frae the water-fit, 

A»ceBda the holy roftliam % 



See, np he's got the word o' Cod, 
AJi' meek an' mim has viewed it. 

While Cojmnon~Senie has ta'en the road» 
An' aff, an' up the Cowgate,* 

Fast, fast that day. 

XVIL 

Wee neist the guard relieves* 

An' orthodoxy raibles, 
Tbo' in his heart he weel believes 

And thinks it auld wives' fables : 
But, faith, the birkie wants a manse- 

So cannily be hums ihem ; 
Altho' his carnal wit and sense. 

Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes hira 
At times that day. 

XVIIL 

Now but an* ben, the change-house filb* 

Wi* ^ill-caup commentators : 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills. 

And there the pint stoup clatters ; 
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' laagf 

Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the end. 

Is like to breed a rupture 

0' wrath that day. 

XIX- 

Leeze me on drink ! it gi'es us mair 

Than either School or College 
It kindles wit, it waukens lair. 

It pangs us fou o' knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep» 

Or ony stronger potion. 
It never fails on drinking deep. 

To kittle np our notion 

By night or day. 

XX. 

The lads an' lasses, bljthely bent 

To mind baith saul and body. 
Sit round the table weel content. 

An' steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, an' that ane*i lenk. 

They're makin' observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk. 

An' forming assignations 

To meet some day. 

XXL 

But now the L — d's ain trumpet toots. 

Till a' the hills are rairin', 
An' echoes back return the shouts 

Black is na spairiu' : 

His piercing words, like Highland swordt 

Divide the joints an' marrow ; 
His talk o' Hell, where devils dweD, 

Our very saul does harrow! 

Wi' fright that day 

XXII. 

A vast, onbottom'd boundless pit. 
Filled fou o' lowin' brunstane, 

Wha's ragin' flame and scorcbin' heat« 
Wad melt the hardest whun-stane I 

The half asleep start up wi' fear. 
And think they hear it roarin'f 

When presently it does appear. 



*A street so called, which facta tk»lmi 
Shakspeare's Ilaalsu 



DIAMOND CABIWET LIBRAaY. 



»Twas but some neighbour snorin' 
Asleep that day 

XXIIT. 
•Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How monj stories past. 
An* how they crowded to the yill, 

When they were a' dismist : 
How drink g^ed round, in cogs an' canps, 

Amang the forma an' benches ; 
An' cheese an* bread, frae women's lap*. 

Was dealt about in lanches 

An' dawda that day. 

XXIV. 

In oomes a gancie, gaeh ^idwife. 

An' sits down by the fire, 
Svne draws her kebbnck an' her knife, 

"The lasses they are shyer. 
The nuld guidncen, about the groce, 

Frae side tn side they U'lher, 

Till some ane by his bonnet lays 

And gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' lang that dAy. 

XXV. 

Wacsucks ! for him that gets nae lass. 

Or lassefi that hae noelLing I 
Snsa' need has he to »ay a grace 

Or melvie his braw claithing I 
O wires be mindfa' ance yoursel 

How bonr.ie lads ye wanted, 
An' dinna for a kebbuck heel, 

Let lasses be afironted 

On sic a day. 

xx^^. 

Now ClttikumbeU, wi' rattlin' tow, 

Begins to jow an' croon ; 
Some swagger bame, the best they dow. 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the biUies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon : 
Wi' faith, an' hope, an' love, an' drink. 

They're a' in famoun tune. 

For crack that day. 

XXVII. 

flow monie hearts this day converts 

0» siuiers and o' lapses ! 
1'heir hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane 

As saft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fon o' love divine ; 

There's some are fon o' brandy t 
An' mony jobs that day begin. 

May end in hooghmai^aBdie 

Some ither day. 



DEATH AND DOCTOa HOKNBOOK. 

A TBUB STOBY. 

Some books are lies frae end to end. 
And some great lies were never penn'd, 
Ev'n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd. 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid, at times, to vend, 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 



1 Is Just as tme's the Dell's in hell 

, Or Dublin city « 

I That e'er he nearer romee oursd' 

'8 a mnckle pity. 

The Clacban yill bed made me centy, 
I I was na fou, bat just had plenty ; 
I stacher'd whyles, but yet look tent aye 

To free the ditches ; 
An* hillocks, stanes, en' bushes, koiin'd aye 
Frae ghaists an' witehe^. 

ITie rising moon b^an to ^low'r 
The distant Cumnock hills ont-owre t 
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel' } 
Bat wheth^ ehe had thr«« or font, 

I oouldna telL 

I was eome round al-otrt the hill. 
And todlia down on R'ti'ie's mUf 
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill. 

To keep me sicker | 
The' keward whyles, agnitist my will, 

1 toon a bicker. 

I there wi' tomethins did forgather. 

That put me in an eerie swiiber : 

An' Hwfa' scythe, cut-owre ae ahonther. 

Clear-dangling, hang ; 
A three-taed kieter on the itber. 

Lay, l&r^ ail' lang. 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa. 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, , 
For tient a wame it had a^a ; 

And then, its shanks. 
They were as thin, as sharp, an' sma' 

As cheeks o' branka. 



' quo' I ; • Friend ! hae ye been 



But thk that I am gann to tell, 
Which lately on a night befell, 



• Guid e 

When ither folk are busy sawin' t** 
It seem'd to mak' a kind o' »tan'. 

But naething spak i 
At length, says I, ' Friend, where ye gauD, 

Will ye go back r 

It spak right howe,— * My namo is Deafh, 
But be na fley'd.* — Quoth I, • Guid faith, 
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath ; 

But tent ma. billie j 
I red ye weei tak care o' skaith. 

See there's a gnDy ! * 

• Gnidman,' quo' he, * put np your whittle, 
I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; 

But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be misleir'd, 
I wad na mind it, no, that spittle 

Out owre my bean}.' 

' Weel, weel I' says I, • a bargain ho*ti 
Come, gie's your hand, an' s.aa we'regrent^ 
We '11 ea^e our shanks an' tak a seat. 

Come gie's yoar news ; 
while t ye hae been mony a gat«. 
At mony a house. ' 



*- This reacoanter happened in sefi-tintA, 
1785. 

t An epidemiod ferer WM then raglnf la 
that coaatry. 



BURNS.— POEMS. 



«Ay^ ay»' mtp he, an' shook bis head, 

* Its e'en ft ian^» lang time indeed 
Bin' I tx^&a to nick the thread. 

An ' choke the breath t 
Polk maun do something: for their bread) 
An' sae manu Death. 

* Sm thousand years are near hand fled. 
Sin' I was to the bntching bred. 

An' uonj a scheme in vain '» been laid^ 

To stap or scar me ; 
im ano Hornbook's* to'en up the triwie, 
An' fejth he'll waar nie, 

« Ye ken Jocw Hornbook i' the Clachan, 
Deil mak his kiag's hood in a gplenchan 1 
He's grown sae weel acquaint wi* Bachanf 

An* ither chaps. 
The weans baud out their fingers langhin' 

An' pouk my hipe. 



They hae pierced mony a gallant he 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 

And cursed Bkill, 
Ha£ mad* them baith no worth a f — t, 

Dama'd haet they'll kilL 

• 'Twas but yestreen, nae fartJier gan«, 
I threw a noble throw at ane ; 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I'ta hnndTwls slain ; 

Bat deil-ma-carey 
It just played dirl on the bane. 

But did nae mair. 

« Hornbook was by, wi ' ready ert. 
And had sae fortibed the part. 
That when I looked to my dart. 

It wRs sae biunt, 
Fient haet o't wad hae pierced the heart 

Of a kail- runt. 

• I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I nearhaud coup it wi' my hurry. 
But yet the bauld Apothecary 

Withstood the shock ; 
I might as weel hae tried a quarry 

O' hard whin rock. 

• Even them he canna get attended, 
Altbo' their face he ne'er had kend it, 
Just in a kail-blade, and send it. 

As soon's he smells't, 
Baith their disease, and nhat will mead it. 
At ance he tells'U 

< An' then a' doctors' saws and whittles. 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, 

He's sure to hae ; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

AsABC. 



* This gentleman, Dr Hombocit, Is, pTo- 
fcssioniiUjr, abrother of the Sorerei^ Order of 
ttu P«rula ; but by intuition and inspiration, 
is at once an Apothecary, Surgeon, and Pby- 

f BiKhao'e Domestic Medioine. 



The Farina of beans and peasor 

He has't in pleniy f 

Aqna-fontis, what you please, 

He can content ya. 

* Forbye soma new^ uncommon weapons, 

Urinn? spiritus of capons ; 

Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings 

Distilled per se ; 
Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippins. 

An ' mony mae. 

« Waet me for Johnnie Ged's Hole 4 now i 
Quo' I, ' If that thfc news be true 1 
His l»-aw calf-ward where gowans grew, 

Sae white aa' bonnie, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plough ; 

They'll ruin Johnnie ! ' 

The creature grained an eldritch laugh. 
An' BBvs, < '^ e needna yoke the plengh. 
Kirk-yards will soon be tilled eneugh, 

lak ye nae fear ; 
They'll a' be trenched wi* mony a sheugh 

la twa-three year. 

* Whare I killed ane a fair strae death, 
By loss o' blood or want o' breath. 
This night I'm free to tak my aith, 

That Hornbook's skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith. 
By drap an' pill. 

* An honest Wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel brcdp 
Gat tippence-worth to mend her bead, 

When it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed. 

But ne'er spok mair. 

* A countra Laird had ta'en the batts. 
Or some curmurring in his guts. 

His only son for Hornbook sets. 

An' pays him well } 

The lad, for twa gnid gimraer pets. 
Was laird himsel*. 



ill-brewn drink had hoTed her wame ; 
She trusts hersel', to hide the shame. 

In Hornbook's care ; 
Horn sent her affto her lang hame. 

To hide it there. 

« That's juBt a swatch o* Hornbook's way i 
Thus goes he on from day to day. 
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, 

An's weel paid for't 
Yet stops me o' my lawfa' prey, 

Wi' his dama'd dirt. 

« But hark ! 1'U tell yon of a plot. 
Though dinna ye be speaking o't } 
I'll nail the self-conceited sot. 

As dead's a herrin'; 
Neist timo wc meet. 111 wad a groat. 

He gets his fairin' ! 



I The ^ratC'digg^JR 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Borne wee short hour ayont the hval. 

Which raised us baith ; 

I tBOk the «aj that pleased mysel'. 
And sae did Deaih. 



THE BRIGS OP AYR t 



Ikscribed to J. B- 



— , Esq. Axr. 



ITie simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough. 
Learning his tuneful trade from every bough ; 
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, 
Hailing the setting sua, sweet, in the green 

thorn bush : 
Tlie soaring lark, the perching red-breast 

shrill. 
Or deep-toned plovers, grey, wild whistling 

o'er the bill; 
Shall he, nursed in the Peasant's lowly shed, 
To hardy independence bravely bred, 
By early Poverty to hardship steel 'd, 
Aud train 'd to arms in stern Misfortune's 

field- 
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes. 
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 
Or labour hard the panegyric close, 
With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose ? 
Nof though his artless strains he rudely 

sings, 
And throws his hand nncouthly o'er the 

strings. 
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear re- 

Stlll, if some Patron's generous 
Skill'd in the secret, to"bestow v 

When B befriends his humble name, 

And hands the rustic stranger up to fame. 
With heart-felt throbs his grateful bosom 

swells. 
The godlike bliss, to^ve, alone excels. 



The hoary morns precede the sunny dayi. 
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noon-tid* 

blaze, 
While thick the gossamor waves wanton ik 

the rays, 
"Twas in that season, when a simple bard. 
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 
Ae night, within the ancient brngh of Ayr, 
By whim inspired, or haply press'd wi' care ; 
He left his bed, and took his wayward route. 
And down by Simpson's* wheel'd the left 

aboQt : 
(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate 
To witness what I after shall narrate ; 
Or whether wrapt in meditation high. 
He wander'd out he knew not where nor 

why), 
The drowsy Dungeon-clockf had number'd 

And Wallace towerf had sworn the fact was 

The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen-soundin' 

roar. 
Thro' the still night dash'd hoarse along the 

shere : 
All else was hush 'd in Nature's closed e'e : 
The silent moon shone high o'er tower and 

The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering 

When, lo! on either hand the list'oing 
bard. 
The clanging sough of whistling wings ha 

Two dnsky forms dart through the midnight 



I 



n the wheeling 



*Twas when the stacks get on their winter 

hap. 
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap ; 
Potatoe bings are snugged up frae skaiih 
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath; 
The bees rejoicing o'er their simmer toils, 
Unnnmber'd buds an' flowers' delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen 

piles. 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the 

weak. 
The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone 

The thundering guns are heard on every side, 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feather 'd field-mates, bound by Nature's 

Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
rWhat warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) 
Nae mair the flower in field or meadow 



I Swift as the Cos ^ «Ir''' 
he trace, ^ne on the Auld Brig his airy shape uprears. 
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers > 
Our warlike Rhymer instantly descry 'd 
The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr pre- 

(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke. 

An' ken the lingo of the spiritual folk ; 

Fays, Spunkiss, Eelpies, a' they can explain 

them. 
And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them,) 
Auld Brig appsar'd of ancient Pictish race. 
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face : 
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstled lang. 
Yet ieughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 
New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, 
That he, at Lon'on frae aoe Adams got ; 
In's band five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 
W'i' virls and whir'ygigums at the Lead. 
The Goth was stalking round with anxiooi 



airy concert rings. 



Except, perhaps, the Robin's whistling gli 
Proad o' the height o' soma bit half-1 



•lang 



I 



rch. 

Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch ; 
It chanced his new-come neebor took his e'e. 
An' e'en a vex'd an' angry heart had he! 
Wi* thieveless sneer to see each modish mien. 
He, down the water, gies him thus guide'ea:— . 
AUT,D BRIG. 

la', frien', ye '11 think ye're nae sheep. 



* A noted tavern at the Atild Brig end. 

f The two steeples. 

% The gos-bawk, or falcon. 



BURNS.— POEMS. 



ITS 



But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 

Tho* faith thai day I doubt ye '11 never see ; 

Tfcere'U be, if that day come, I'll wad i 

boddle. 
Somef«wer whigmaleeries in your noddle. 



NEW BRIG» 
Anld Vandal, ye but show your little mense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense : 
Will your poor narrow foot-paih of a street, 
Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they 

Your ruin'd formless bulk, o' stane an' lime. 
Compare «i' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? 
There's men o' taste would tak' the Ducal- 

Tho' they should cast the Tei7 ^^^^ ^^^ 

Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the 

O' sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 

ACLD BKIG- 
Conceited gowk ! puflF'd np wi' windy 
pride I 
This monie a year I've stood the wind and 

tide; 
An' tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig when ye 're a shapeless cairn ! 
As yet ye little ken about the matter. 
But twa-three winters will inform ye better. 
When heavy, dark, continued a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; 
AVhsn from the hills where springs the brawl- 
ing Coil. 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland 

Or haunted Garpalf draws his feeble source, 
Aroused by blustering winds and spotted 

thowes. 
In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowes ; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat. 
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the 

gate; 
And from Glenbnckf down to the Ratton-key,§ 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling 

Then down ye'U hurl, de'il flor ye never rise I 
Aud dash the gumliejaups tip to the pouring 



NEW BRIO. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs mnst say' 

o't I 
The L— d be thankit that we've tint the gate 



* A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. 
+ The banks of Garpal Water is one of the 
few places in the West of "Scotland, where 
those fancy-scaring beings, known by the 
Dame of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously 
to inhabit. 

i The source of the rivpr Ayr. 
{ A soiail landing place above the large key. 



O'er arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring cot«3. 
Supporting roofs, fantastic, stony groves ; 
Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture 

drest. 
With order, symmetry, or taste nnblest ; 
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream. 
The crazed creations of misguided whim ; 
Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended 

knee, 
And still the second dread command be free. 
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, o» 



Mansions that would dis, 



! the building 



Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast; 

Fit only for a doiled Monkish race. 

Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace. 

Or cuifs of latter times wha held the notion 

That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion. 

Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protec- 



AULD BRIG. 
O ye, my dear-remember 'd ancient yeal- 
ings. 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feel- 

Ye worthy Proveses an' mony a Bailie, 
Wha in the palbso' righteousness did to3 

aye; 
Ye dainty Deacons, an' ye douce Conveners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey 

cleaners ; 
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; 
Ye godly Brethren of the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gae your hurdles to the smiters ; 
And (what would now be strange) ye godlj 

Writers : 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo. 
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do! 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexa- 

To see each melancholy alteration ; 
And agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base, degenerate race ! 
Nae langer Rev 'rend Men, their country's 

glory. 
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain bram 

story! 
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an* douce. 
Meet o»er a pint, or in the Council hcase : 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gen- 
try. 



NEW BRIG. 
Now baud you there ! for faith ye've said 

And muckle niair than ye can mak t* 

through. 
As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little^ 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle » 
But, under favour o' your langer beard. 
Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spared I 
To liken them to your auld warld squad, 
I must ne«ds say comparisons are odd. 



174 



DIAMOND CABmST LIBBAAY. 



In iLyr, vrag-wits nae mair can bse a handle | To rastie Agrienltnn iid bequeath 

To mouth * a CitiEen,' a term o' »c&ndal i ! The broken iron instrnments of death t 

Kae mair the Gooncil waddlss down (he At light of whom ow sprites forgat their 

BtroRt ' kindling wratb. 

Id kD the pomp of igaorant conceit ; 
Udn wha p*^ wise priggin* owrd hops aa* i » 

Or gath«r'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seis- I THE ORDINATION. 

ins. 

If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, 

Had shored them with a glimmer of hia lamp, | 
And would to Common-sense^ for once be- 

traj'd them. 
Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid 

them. 



For sense they little owe to frugal Heaven— 
To please the mob they hide the little given. 



>Vhat farther clishmaclaver might been 
Baid, 
What bloody wars, if sprites had blood to 

shed, 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright: 
Adown th<> glitt'ring stream they featly 

danced t 
Bright to the moon their Tarious dresses 

glanced : 
They footed o'er the watVy glass so neat^ 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet. 
While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, 
Aiid sonl-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. 
O bad M'Lauchlan,* thairm-inspiring sage. 
Been there to heal this heavenly band engage. 
When thro' his dear Strathspeys theybure 

with Highland rage ; 
Or when they struck old Scotia's meltioff airs, 
The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler fired, 
And even big matchless hand with finer touch 

inspired I 
Ko guess could tell what instrument apoear'd. 
But all the son! of Music's self was beard ; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part. 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the 

The Genius of the stream in front appears, 
A venerable chief advanced in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd. 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Aext came th« loveliest pair in all the ring. 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with 

Spring ; 
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural 

And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eyej 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn. 
Led yellow Autumn wreathed with nodding 

Then Winter's time-bleach 'd locks did hoary 

By Hospitality with cloudless brow ; 

J»exi foilow'd Cour^^e with his martial stride. 

From where the Feal wild-woody coverts 

hide ; 
Benevolence, with mild benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair t 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 
I'rom simple Catrine, their long-loved abode : 
Last, white-robed Peace, crown'd with a hazel 

wreathf 



Kilmarnock wabstert, fidge and «Iaw» 

An' potuf your creeshie nations ; 
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw» 

Of a' denominations, 
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane au' a% 

An' there lak up your stations ; 
Then aff to Begbie's in a raw. 

An* pour dinne libations 

For joy this day 

IL 

Cursed Common-sense, that imp o' hell. 

Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder;* 
But O aft made her yell. 

An" R sair misca'd her ; 

This day, M* takes the flail. 

An* he's the boy will bland her ! 
He 11 clap a shangan on her tail. 

An' set the bairns to dand her 

Wi' dirt thii day 

IIL 

Mak haste an' turn king Darid owR^ 

An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; 
O' double verse come gie us four, 

An' skirl up the Bangor: 
This day the kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her. 
For heresy is in her power. 

And gloriously she'll whang her 

Wi' pith this day* 

IV. 

Come let a proper text be read. 

An' touch it aff wi' vigour. 
How graceless Hamf leugh at his Dad* 

Which made Canaan a niger; 
Or Phineast drove the murdering blade> 

Wi' whore-abhorring rigour; 
Or Zipporah,§ the scanlding jade, 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

I' the inn that day. 



There, try his mettle on the creed. 

An' bind him down wi' caution. 
That Stipend is a carnal weed. 

He taks but for the fashion ; 
An' gie him o'er the flock to feed. 

An' punish each transgression ; 

* Alluding to a scoffing ballad whiob ^ 
made on the admission of the late reverend ai 
worthy Mr L. to the Laigh Kirk. 

+ Genesis, ch. ix. ver. 22. 
i Numbers, ch. xxv. ver. &, 
§ Exodus, ch. iv. ver. S& 



BURNS.— POEMS. 



Especial* rams that cross the breed, 
aie them safficiect threshin'. 

Spare them nae day. 

VI. 

W©w enld KlhnamMk, cock thj taQ, 

An' toss thy boms fa' canty ; 
Nae mair thoa']t rowt cmt-owre the da!«, 

Beeasae thy pasture's scanty ; 
For lapfu's largo «' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty. 
An' runts o' grace, tho pick nod wale. 

No gi'en by way o* daimy, 

But ilka day. 

VII. 

Nae rnaSr by Babel's streams well weep, 

To think apou ova Zion t 
An- hing oui fidiUem ap to sleep. 

Like babv-eloulB a-drjin' ; 
Come, 6cre-w fhe pejgs with tnnefu' cheep. 

An' owre the thairms be tryin* ; 
Ob, rare I to see our^ibucks wheep, 

An* a' like lamb-tails fly in' 

Fu' fast this day. 

vin. 

Lung PatTona{»0, wi* rod o* aim. 

Has ehored the kirk'B undoin', 
As lately Fen^iok, eair forfairn. 

Has provtm to itfl ruin t 
Our Patron, honest man ! Glencaim, 

lie saw mischief was brewin' ; 
An' like a godly elect bairn 

He's waled us out a true ane. 

An' sound this day. 

IX. 



Now R ■ hnrcngue nae mair, 

hut 8t6«k ^our gab for ever ; 
Or trj' tho wicked town of Ayr, 

For there they 11 think you clever ; 
Or, nae reflection on jour lear, 

Yf may commence a shaver ; 
Or to the Netherton repair, 

Aa' turn a carpet weaver 

Offhand this day 



M — and you were just a match. 

We never hud sic twa drones ; 
Auld Hornie did ttie Laigh Kirk watch 

J ust like n winkin' baudrons t 
An' aye he catch'd the tither wretch. 

To fry them in his caudruns t 
lut uovv his honour maun detach, 
Wi* a' his brimstone squadrons. 

Fast, fast, this day. 

XL 

Sec, se« auld Orthodoxy's faes, 

She's swingin' through the city ; 
Hark how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! 

I vow it's unco pret^ : 
There Learning, wi' his Greekish face. 

Grunts out &ome Latin ditty : 
All' Common-sense is gaun, she says* 

To mak to Jamie Beattie 

Her plaint this day. 

XIL 

But there's Morality himsel'. 

Embracing a' opinions ; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell. 



Betw«»en his twa cotnpanlims | 
See, bow abe peels the skhi an' feO; 

As ane were pcelin* onions 1 
Now there— they're nacked aflfto hell. 

An' banish 'd onr dominions) 

Henceforth this day. 

XIIL 
O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 
Coma bouse about tho porter ! 
Morality's demnre decoys 

Bhall here naetnair find quarter t 
ai« the boys. 



Tbht heresy can tortup) t 
They'll gio her on a rape a hoyE«y 
An' cowe her measuTe shorter 

By the head 6om6 day> 

XIY. 

Come bring the tither tnutchkia in, . 

An' here's for n conclusion. 
To every New Light* mother's son» 

Fvom this time forth Confusion : 
If mair they deave us wi' theur din, .• 

Or Patronage intrusion. 
We'll light a spunk, an' every Ekiof 

We'll rin them aff in fusion 

Like oil, some day* 



TO THB REV. MR • 

On his Text, Malachi, ch. Iv. ver ». •• And 

they shall go forth, and grow Qp, like caivsa 
of the stall." 

Eight, Sir I your text I'll prove it true, 

lliough Heretics may laugh ; 
F«r instance ; there's yoursel' just now, 

God knows, an unco Calf! 

An' should some Patron be so kind. 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt nae, Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye're still as great a Stirk. 

But, if the Lover's raptured hour 

Shall ever be your lot. 
Forbid it, every heavenly Power, 

You e'er should be a Stot ! 

Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, 

Your but-and-ben adorns, 
llie like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 

And, in your lug, most reverend James, 

To hear you roar and rowte. 
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank amang the uowte. 

And when ye're numbered wi* the dea^ 

Below a grasiy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head— . 

* Here lies a famous Bullock ! ' 



* New Light is a cant phrase in the West o# 
Scotland, for tho>se religions opinions which 
Dr lay lor of Norwich has defended w sttcno*' 
onsly. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 

O Prince ! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, 
That led the embattled Seraphim to war. 

MiUon. 

O then ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in jon cavern grim an' sooiie, 

Closed under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud poor wretches. 

Hear me, anld Hangie, for a wee. 
An' let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm sure sma* pleasure it can pie, 

E'enioade'.l, 
To ekelp an' scaud poor dogs like me. 

An' hear us squeel 1 

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; 
Far kend and noted is thy name : 
An' tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy Lame, 

Thou travels far ; 
An' faith I thou's neither lag nor lame. 

Nor blate nor scaur. 

"Whyles, ranging 1 ke a roarin' lion. 
For prey, a' holes and corners tryin' ; 
Whyles on the strong-winged tempest flyin*, 

Tirling the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin'. 
Unseen thou lurks. 

I've heard my reverend Graunie say, 
In lanely glens you like to stray ; 
Or where auld ruined castles gray, 

Kod to the moon. 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, 

Wi' eldritch croon. 



When twilight did my Grannie 
To say her pravers, douce honest woman ! 
Aft jont the dyke she's heard jou bummin' I 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, rustlin', thro' the boortries comin', 

Wi' heavy groan. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night. 
The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, 
Wi' you, mysel', I gat a fright, 

Ayont the lough ; 
Ye, like a rash-bush stood in sight, 
Wi' waving sough. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake. 
Each bristled hair stood like a stake. 
When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick — quaick— 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd like a drake. 

On whistling wings. 

Let Warlocks grim, an' wilher'd hags. 
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags, 
They skim the muirs, and dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed; 
And in kirk-yards rene%v their leagues, 
Owre howkit dead. 

Thence eountra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ; 
R* oh ! the yellow treasure's ta'en 
By witching skill ; 



1 

croUM H 

I 



Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, 
On young Guidman, fond, keen, an' cr 
When the best wark-lume i' the house, 

By cantrip wit. 
Is instant made do worth a louse, 

J ust at the bit. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord» 
An' float thejingliu' icy-boord. 
Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord. 



An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies, 
Deeoj the wight thai late and drunk Ls ; 
The bleezin', cursed, mischievous nonkey* 

Delude his eyes. 
Till in gome miry slough he suok is, 

Ke'er mair to rise. 

When Masons' mystic word an' grip-, 
In storms an* tempests raise yon up. 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 

Or, strange to tell 1 
The youngest Brother ye wad whip 

Afl' straught to hell 1 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard. 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd. 
An' all the soul of love they shared. 

The raptured hour. 
Sweet on the fragrant flowery swaird 

In shady bower: 

Then yon, ye anld, snic-drawing dog I 
Ye came to Paradise incog. 
An' played on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa' 1) 
An' gied the infant world a sbog, 

'Maist ruined a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizB, 
Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz. 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz 

'Mang belter folk. 
An' sklented on the man of Uz 

Your spitefu' joke. 

An' how ye gat him i* your thrall. 
An' brak him out o' house an' hall, 
V/hile scabs and blotches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw. 
An' lowsed his ill-tongued wicked scawl. 

Was warst ava ? 

But a' yonr doings to rehearse. 
Your wily snares an' fechtin' tierce. 
Sin' that day Michael*- did you pierce, 

Down to this time. 
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloots, I ket ye're tbinkia* 
A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin*! 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin'. 
To your black pit ; 



* Yid« MiltOBi book ti. 



BURNS POEMS. 



But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben t 
O wad ye tak a thought and men* ! 
Ye aiblins might— I dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake— 
I'm wae to think upon yon den, 

£vea for your sake ! 



DEATH AND DYING WORDS 



POOR MAILIE, 
iHE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. 

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. 

As Mailie, an' her lambs theglther. 
Were ae day nibbling on.the tether. 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
An' owre she warsled in the ditch ; 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie. 
When Hughoc * he came doytin by. 

Wi' glowrin' een, and lifted ban's. 
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's : 
He saw her days were near-hand ended, 
But wae's my heart ! he could na mend it t 
He gaped wide, but naethiiig spak ! 
At length poor IViailie silence brak : 

' thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my waefu' case I 
Wy dying words at(entive hear. 
An' bear them to my Master dear. 

« Tell him, if e*er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O, bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair I 
But ca' them out to park or hill. 
An' let them wander at their will : 
So may his flock increase and grow 
To *!ores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' ! 



« Tell h 



master kin'. 



m, he V 

An' now my dying charge I gie h 
My helpless lambs I trust them w 



' him. 



* O bid him save their harmless lives, 
Frae do^s, an' tods, an' butchers' knives^ 
But gie%eni guid cow-milk their fill, 
Till they be lit to fend themsel' ; 

An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn. 

• An* may they never learn the gates 
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets ! 

To slink through slaps, an' reave an' steal) 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great Torbears, 
For mony a year come thro' the sheers : 



it A neehor herd-callan. 



' My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, 

bid him breed him up wi' care ! 
An' if he live to be a beast. 

To pit some havins in his breast. 
An' warn him, what I winna name. 
To stay content wi yowes at hame ; 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots. 
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 

'■ < An' neist my yowie, silly thing, 
Guid keep thee frae a tether string ! 
O' may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit inoorlaai! toop ; 
But aje keep mind to moop an* mell 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel' I 

« An* now, mj bairns, wi' my last breathj 

1 lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith : 

An' when you think upo' your mither, . 
Wind to be kin' to ane anither. 

« Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail 
To tell my ma..ter a' my tale ; 
An' bid him burn this cursed tether. 
An' for thy pains, thou'se get my blether, 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close. 

Past a* remead ; 
The last sad cape-stane o' his woes ; 

Poor Mailie 'a dead ! 

It's no the loss o' warl's gear. 
That could sae bitter draw the tear. 
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed : 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear, 
In Mailie dead. 

Thro' a' the town she trotted by him 
A lang half-mile she could descry him 
Wi' kindly bleat when she did spy him. 

She ran wi' speed ; 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him» 
Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sleep o' sense. 
An' could behave hersel' wi' mense: 
I'll say't, she never brak a fence. 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Oar bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 
Sin' Mailie 's dead. 

Or, if he wanders up the howe. 
Her living image in heryowe 
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, 

For bits o' bread ; 
An* down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 
i Wi' tawted ket, on' hairy hips: 



DUMONO CABINET LIBRARY. 



For her forbears wet* hroaght w gbif>» 
Frae joiU the Tweetl I 

A bonnier fleestt ae er ertKts'd the clips 
Than I\Iailie dead. 

V/aa worth the man wha first did shape 
TtHt vile, wtinohancie thing — a rape ! 
It mate guid fellows ^irn an' gape, 

Wi^chokin' dread; 
An' Bobis'i bonnet waye wi' crape. 
For Maiiie dead. 

O, a' jre bards on bonnie Doon ! 
An' wha on Ajr your chanters tune * 
Come, join the melaiicbolious croon 

O' Robin's reed I 
His heart will nerer get abooQ 

Uis Mailic dead. 



TO J. 8YMB. 



Friendship I mysterious cement of the sotii 1 
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society I 
1 ow« thee much ! Blair. 



Dear Syme, the sleeat, pankie tliief, 
That e'er attempted stealth or riet, 
Ye aorelj hae some warltMik-breef 

Owro hautau hearts ; 
For ne'er a bosom yet wa£ pcief 

Against >cur arts. 

For me, I swear tj sun an* moon, 
Aiid every st.-r VAxt taaka abooi^ 
Ye've cwsl -jie twenty pair o' niio^a. 

Just gaan ta see ^ou i 
And «verj itber pair that's done; 

Alaix taen I'm wi' you. 

That aa?d capricious earlin. Nature, 
To oiak amends for scrimpit stature. 
She's iutu'd you atf, a human creature 

On her hrst plan. 
And in her freaks, on every feature. 

She's wrote, the Man. 



ii' hasty s 
Hae ye a leisuro moment's time 

To hear what's oojila' f 

Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash ; 
Soma rfavme (vein thought !) for oe*>dfa' cash» 
Some rhy ute to oeurt the country clash. 

An' raise a din } 
For me an aim I never fash | 

i rhyme for fan. 

The star that rules mj ladder lot. 
Has fated me the ruhset coat, 
Au' damned mj fortune to the groat j 

But in reqait. 
Has blessi'd me wi' a random shot 
0' countra wiu 

This while my notion's taen a skleat. 
ttss my fate iu guid black prent } 



But still the malr,I*ni that wny bent, 

Bomethin; crien < Hooile I 

I red yoo, honest man, tak tent t 

Ya'U shaw yocnr toiilj, 

* Here's ither poeta, mnoh ronr betters. 
Far seen iu Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Hae thought they had insured ebeir debtors, 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform in shapeless tetters, 

Utair unkoQwa pages. * 

Th«n ffiTPwell hopes o* lanrel-boaghs, 
To garJftt>J my poetic brows ! 
Ueneeforth I'U rovo where busy ploogha 

Are whistling thnuig. 
An' teaab the lai>eW hoights an' bowsa 



utely , 
My 



rualio a&ng. 



Ill wander on, with tentlesa heed 
How never-halting moments spewi. 
Till fata atiall snap the brittle thread } 

Tom, all ankuowo. 
I'll lay me with tb' Inglorious dead. 

Forgot and gone I 

Bat why o' de-yi re^gin a tale f 
Jusi now we're 1. ^-g, sound an' hala. 
Then top and maiUv.-, crowd the sail, 

Uau«e care o'er side ] 
And largOf before eujoyment's gile. 

Let's tiJt' the ude. 

This life, sae far's I understand. 
Is e ' enchanted fairy land. 
Where pleasure is the ma^o wand. 

That, wielded rieht, 
Maks hoars like minutes, hand in hand. 
Dance by fa' light. 

The masrio-wand then let ns wield ; 
For aiice that tive-an'-forty's speel'dy 
hee crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi* wrinkled face* 
Comes hostin', hirplia', owre the fSel^ 
Wi' creepin' pace. 

When ance life's day draws near the 
gloamin'. 
Then farewell vacant careless roantfai' t 
Au' farewell obeerfu' tankards foamiu ', 

An ' social noise ; 
Au' farewell dear deluding womau. 
The joy of joys 1 

O Life t how pleasant in thy morni^, 
Yonog Fancy's rays the hills adornicg ! 
Cold pausing Caution's lesson sooming. 

We firisk away. 
Like school-boys, at the expected warning) 

To joj aod play. 

We wander there, we wander her* 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmuidfai that tke thorn is near, 

Amang the leaves / 
Aad though tlte pany wocnd appear. 

Short while U grieves. 

Some lacky, find a flowery epat» 
For >vhicb th^ nerer toiled nor swat. 
They driDk the swe^ and eat the fat. 
Bat care or pain t 



BUEiNS—POEMS. 



d haplj •;« the barrta hat 

With biffh diMlai 



With stead; aim, some Fortnae chase ; 
Keen ho|»« does every ainew brace : 
Tbro' fawi thro' foal> they nrga the race, 

And aeice the pre; t 
Then caooie la some eosie plaee* 

Thej dose the day. 

An' others, like your humble lerran'. 
Poor wights I nae mles or roads observin' i 
To right or left, eternal swervin'. 

They sig-sag on ; 
Till cunt wi' age, obs«ure an' starvin'. 

They aften groau. 

Alas ! what bitter toil ah* straining — 
Bat trace with peerish poor eomplainiug 1 
ii Fortune's fickle Lnna waning T 

E'en let her gang. 
Beneath what light she has remaining. 

Let's aing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door. 
And kneel, • Ye Pow'rs i ' and warm implore, 
* Tho' 1 should wander terra o'er. 

In all her eliaes. 
Grant m« bat this, I ask no more, 

Aye rowth o' rhymes. 

' Gie dreeping roasts to eoantra lairds. 
Till icicles hing frae their beards : 
Gie line braw daes to fine life-gaards. 

An' maids of honour i 
An* yill an* whisky gie to oairds. 

Until they sconner. 

< A title, Dempster merits it ; 
A garter gie to Willie Pitt ; 
Gie wealOi to some be-ledger'd cit, 
la cent per cent ; 



• While ye are pleased to keep me bale, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-broee, or muslin-kail, 

Wi'cheerfu' face, 
As lang's the muses dinca fail 

To say the grace. 

An anzjons «'e I oam throws 
Behiut my log, or by mj nose ; 
1 jouk benetOh miafortone's blows. 

As weel's I may ( 
Sworn foe to sorrow, CMre, an' prose, 

1 rhyme away. 

O ye doQce folk, that lire by rnla, 
GraT«, tideless-blooded, calm and eool, 
Conipiu-ed wi' yoQ— O fool I fool I fool ! 

How much anlike 1 
Youi hearts ar« jtist a standing pool. 

Your lives, a dyke I 

Na« hair-brained sentimental traces 
In yoor unlettered OAmeiess faces { 
lo arieao trflJs and graeaa 

Yo never stray, 
But graoiubnOf soloma basses 

Ye hum svray. 



Ye are sse graTe, nae doubt ye're wise, 
Na<> ferlj tho' ye do despise 
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 

llie rattlia' squad t 
I see you upward east your eyes— 

—Ye kea the roa d — 

Whilst I— but I shall hand ma there-^ 

Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony wher»— 
Theu, Jamie, I shall say o 

r 

Contem wi ' you t< 



Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames 

with reason t 
But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason. 

[On reading, in the public papers, the Lau 
reaie's Ode, with the other parade of June 
4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropi 
asleep, than he liuagined himself transported 
to the birth-day levee ; and in his dreaming 
fancy, made the following Address.] 

1. 

Guid mornin' to your Majesty 1 
May heaven augment your blisses, 

On every new birth day ye see, 
A humble poet wishes I 

My bardibip here at your leree. 



Ons 



a da; a* this 



Is sure uQ uncouth sight to see, 
A niHu g the l>Lr;h-day dresbesi 

bae fine this day. 

XL 

I see ye're complimented thiang, 

By mony a lord an' lady, 
• God save the liing' 's a cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said aye ; 
The poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes wecl turned an' ready. 
Wad gar you trow ve ne'er do wraug. 

But aye unerring steady. 

On sio a day. * 

IIL 

For me I before a monarch's faee. 

Even there I winna flatter { 
For neither pension, post, nor place. 

Am I your humble i^ebtor i 
Sae nae reflection on your grace, 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's monie waur been o* Uie race, 

As' aibliua ane been better 

Than you this day. 

IV. 

'Tu very tme, my sov'reign king, 

My skiU may well be doubted : 
But facu are ehiels that winna din^ 

An' downa be disputed! 
Your royal nest beneath your wing 

Is e'en right reft an* clouted. 
An' now the third part o' the string. 

An* less, nyiH gang about it 

Than did ae day. 



DIAiMOXD CABINET LIBRART. 



Far be't firae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation. 
Or say, ve wisdom waat, or fire, 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But faith I Imuckle doubt, my Sire, 

Ye've trusted ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fill'd their statio'n 

Than courts yon day. 

TL 

An' now ye've gien auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaister ; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has scarce a tester ; 
For me, thank God, my life's a lease 

Nae bargain wearing faster. 
Or, faith t I fear, that wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

1' the craft some day 

VIL 

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pit, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(Aa' Will's a true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges), 
That he intends to pay your debt. 

An' lessen a' your charges ; 
But God sake ! let nae saving fit 

Abridge your bonnie barges 

An' boats this day. 

vin. 

Adiea, my Liege ! may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection ; 
An' may je rax Corruption's ueck, 

An' gie her for dissection I 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect. 

In loyal true affection. 
To pay your Queen, with due respect, 

Wy fealty an' subjection 

This great birth-day. 

IX. 

Hail, Majesty I Most Excellent ! 

While nobles strive to please ye 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies ye I 
Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, 

Still higher may they heeze ye 
In bliss, till fate seme day is sent, 

For erer to release ye 

Frae care that day. 



For yon, young potentate o* Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, 

I'm tauld ye 're driving rarely ; 
But someday ye may gnaw your nails, 

Au* curse your folly sairly. 
That e'er ye brack Diana's pales, 

rtv iHitHMl diofl ni' r;har1!<>. 



'XI. 

let eft a ragged eowte'i been known 

To mak a noble aiver ; 
So. je may densely 6U a throne, 



There, him+ at Aginconrt wha shone. 

Few better were or braver ; 
And yet wi' funny queer Sir John,f 

He was an unco shaver 

For monie a day. 

XII. 

For yon, right rev'rend Osnabrug, 

Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 
Altho' a ribbon at your lug 

Wad been a dres's completer: 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 

1 hat bears the kevs of Peter, 
Th'^n, swith ! an' get a wife to hug. 

Or trouth, ye'll stain the mitre 

Some luckless day. 

XIII. 

Yonng royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her ; 
A elorious galley t stem an ' stern, 

Weel ri,?g'd for Venus' barter ; 
But first hang outj that she'll discern 

Your hymeneal charter. 
Then, heave aboard your grapple aim, 

Au* large upo' her quarter. 

Come full that day. 

XIV. 
Ve, lastly, bonnie blossoms a'. 

Ye royal Passes dainty, 
Heav'n make you guid as weel as braw» 

An' gie you lads a-plentv : 
But sneer nae British boys awa'. 

For kings are unco scaiil aye ; 
An' German gentles are but sma'» 

They're better just than want aye 
On onie day. 

XV. 

God bless yon a' I consider now. 

Ye' re unco muckle dautet; 
But, ere the course o' life be thro' 

It may be bitter sautet ; 
An' I hae seen their coggie fon, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow. 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 



THE VISION. 

DtJAN riKST.§ 

The sun had closed the winter day. 
The curlers quat their roaring play. 
An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green. 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

AYh&re she has been. 

The thresher's weary flingin-tree 
Th-x lee-lang day had tired me : 

* King Henry V. 

f Sir John Falstaff, vide Shakspeare. 

i Alluding to the newspaper account of • 
certain royal sailor's amour. 

§ Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different 
divisions of a digressive pnem. See his Catb, 
Loda. vol. ii. of M'Pherson's translation. 



BURNS.— POEMS. 



And whan the day had closed his e'e. 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spenee, right pensiveiiei 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and e'ed the spewing reek. 
That fill'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek. 

The auld clay biggin' ; 
An' heard the restless rattens squeak 

About the riggin'. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 
1 backward mused on wasted time. 
How I had spent my youthfu' prime. 

All' done nae-thing. 
But stringiu' blethers up in rhyme. 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but haikit, 
1 might by this, hae led a market, 
Or strutted in a bank and clarkit 

Mv cash account ; 
WhUe here, half-mad, half-fed. half-sarkit, 

Is a' th' amount. 

I started, mutt 'ring, blockhead ! coof ! 
And beared on high my waukit loof. 
To swear by a' yon starry roof, 

Or some rash aith. 
That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof 
Till my last breath— 

When click ! the string the sneck did draw ; 
An' jee ! the door gaed to the wa* ; 
An' by my ingle-lowe I saw. 

Now bleezin' bright, 
A tight outlandish Hizzie, braw. 

Come full in sight. 

Ye need na doubt, I held my -whisht ! 
The infant aith half-form 't was crush't ) 
I glowr'd as eerie 's I'd been dnsht 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet like modest worth, she blush't. 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly boughs. 
Were twisted gracefu' round her brows ; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token : 
^n' come to stop those reckless vows. 

Would soon been broken. 

A • hair-brain 'd, sentimental trace' 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildly-witty, rusiio grace 

Shone full upon her ; 
Her tje, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honour. 

Town flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen. 
Till half a leg was scriroply seen ; 
And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 

Could only peer it ; 
8ae straugbt, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nane else cam near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue. 
My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 
Deep lights and shades, bold mingling, threw 

A lustre grand ; 
And teem'd to my astonish 'd view, 
A well-known laud. 



Here, rivers :n the sea were jost ; 
There, mountains to the skies were tost : 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast. 

With surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty least. 
The lordly dome. 

Here Doon ponr'd down his far-fetch'd 

There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds ; 
Aald hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods. 

On to the shore ; 
And many a lesser torrent scuds. 

With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread. 
An ancient borough rear'd her head ; 
Still, as in Scottish story read. 

She boasts a race. 
To every nobler virtue bred. 

And polish 'd grace. 



palace fair, 
he air, 

d to dare. 



By stately t< 
Or ruins pendent in tlie air 
Bold stems of heroes, here 

I could discer 
Some seem'd to muse, some see 

With feature 



My heart did glowing transport feel, 
3 see a race * heroic wheel. 
And brandish round the deep-dyed steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
While back-recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their southron foes. 



I Thf 



His Country's saviour, + mark him well J 
Bold Richardton's ± heroic swell ; 
"" ' ■ " on Sark § who glorious fell. 

In high command ; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 



There, where a sceptred PIctish shade |j 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race portray 'd 

Bold, soldier-featured, undismay'd 
They strode along. 



* The Wallace 

\ Adam Wallac 
the immortal pres.-'rver of Scottish indepen- 
dence. 

§ Wallace, Laird of Craigie. who was 
second in command, under Douglns, Earl of 
Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of 
Sark, fought, anno 1448. That glorious vic- 
tory was principally owing to the judicious 
conduct and intrepid valour of ihe galSan'' 
Laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds aftei 
the action. 

(1 Coilas, king of the Picfs, from whom the 
district of Kyle is said to take its name, lies 
buried, as tradition says, near the family-seat 
of the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, where his 
burial-place is still shown. 

T Barskimming, the seat of the late Lord 
Justice-Clerk. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



(Pit baantfl for friendship or for lore 
In musiog mood}) 

Ad agad JtMlgSt 1 saw him roTe, 

Diipensmg good. 

With deep-itmek rrrcrential aw«)^ 
111* iMTDcd lira %ad ton I taw. 
To Natora'i God and Maturs't Uw 

The; ^ara their loret 
Thia, all iu lonrce and end to draw* 
That to adore. 

Brydon'a brara ward + I well could gpj, 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling e^e ; 
'Who eall'd on Fame, low standing by. 

To hand him on. 
Where many a patriot-name on high. 
And hero shone. 

DUAN SBC0N1>. 

With musiag.deep, astonish'd stare, 
I Tiew'd the hear'nly-seeming fair, 
A whispering throb did witness bear. 

Of kindred sweet, 
"When with an elder sister's air 

She did me greet. 

♦ All haQ ! my own inspired bard I 
In me thy native muse regard I 

No longer moorn thy fate is hard. 
Thus poorly low 

I come to give thee such reward 
As we bestow. 

' Know, the great genius of this land 
Has many a lij^fit, aerial band, 
AVhoy all beneath his high command. 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or anus they nnderstand« 

Their labours ply. 

• They Scotia's race among them share 
Some iire the soldier on to dare ; 

Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart t 

Some teach the bard, a darling aare. 
The tuneful aru 

* 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 

Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar. 

They, sightleM, stand. 

To mend the honest patriot-lore. 

And grace the hand. 

' And when the bard, or hoary sage. 
Charm or instruct the ftiture age. 
They bind the wild poetic rage 

In energy. 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eyaw 

* Hence Fnllarton the brave and yonng ; 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue; 
Uence sweat harmonious Beattie sung 

His •• Uinstral lays ;" 



'*' Catrine, the seat of the late Doetor, and 
present Professor Stewart, 
t Colonel Fill&rtoa. 



Or tore, with noble ardoar stan?, 

The scaptio's iNi^f. 

• To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks df hnman-kind. 
The rostio Bard, thn laboring Hind* 

The Artisan ; 
All ehooMf as various the^r're inelin'dy 

The varioiu man. 



• When vellow waves the heavy grain. 
The threat'ning storm some strongly reiu ( 
Some teach to meliorate the aiain. 

With tillage skill I 

And soma instruct the shepherd-train, 

Blythe o^er the hilL 

' Some hint the lover's harmless wile i 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile) 
Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil. 

For innmble gains. 
And make his cottage scenes beguile 

tiia cares and pains. 

• Some, bounded to a district-space. 
Explore at large man's infant race. 
To mark the embrvotic trace 

Of rustic Bard; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 
A guide and guard. 

* Of these am I — Coila my name ; 
And this district as mine 1 elaim. 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame. 

Held ruling pow'r, 
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful liame, 

"Thy natal hour. 

"^ ♦ With future hope, I oft would gaze. 

Fond on thy little early ways. 

Thy rudely caroll'd, chiming phrase, 

la uncouth rhymes. 
Fired at the simple, artless lays 

Of other times. 

< I saw thee seek the sounding shore. 
Delighted with the dashing roar; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove thro* the sky, 
I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eyew 

« Or when the deep-green mantled earth 
Warm cherish 'd ev'ry flow 'ret 's birthf 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the general mirtk 

With boundless lova. 

' When ripen 'd fields, and asure skiea, 
Call'd forth the reaper's rustb'ng noise, 
I saw thee leave their evening jovs, 

And lonely stalk. 
To vent thy bosom 's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

When yoathfhl knre warm bitishing strong, 
A.eea-sbivering shot thy nerves along. 
Those MoeB t c , grateful to thy tongue, 

li' adored Name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song, 
1 To soothe thy flame. 



BURNS._P0E5JS. 



< I law thy pniie'a maddening play, 
Willi neui tb«e PlnasDr«'« derious way, 
M titled by Fancy '• meteur ray, 

Bj Pa»sion driven) 
Bat yet tbe light th«t led astray 

Wa» light from heaven 

< I tanght thy mannert-paintin^ gtiAini 
The lores, the ways of iimple swaiM, 
Till now o'er all my wide domain* 

Thy fame extends ; 

And some, the pride of Coila's plains. 

Become thy friends. 

• Thou canst not learn, nor can I show 
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow 

, Or wake the bosom-melting throe. 

With SLenstone's art ; 
Uray, the movine 
Warm on the fa 

• Yet all beneath th* nnrivall'd rose, 
The lowly dai^ sweetly blows : 

Tho* large the forest 'a monarch throws 
His army shade. 

Yet greoQ the jaicy hawthorn erowa, 
Adown the glade. 

* Thon never mnrmnr norrepbie ; 
Strh'O in thy bombid sphere to eluae ; 
And trust me, not Potosi's mine. 

Nor kings' reg^ard. 
Can give « bliss o'ermatching titine, 
A rustic Bard. 

' To gtT* my eoBnfieU all in one, 
Th; taaeftil flame still carefsl fan ; 
Precerre th« digniu of Af aa. 

With so«l erect ; 
A*d treat tk« UaiTcrsal Plan 

Will all frotMC 

* Aad wear thorn this,* — ike solsmn said. 
Ajd4 bonnd th« h«ily romnd my head ; 

Tbe polished leaves, and berries red. 
Did niEtling play ; 

And, like a paasing thought, she fled 
£t IJgkt away. 



DDBBB8 TO THE UNCO GUID> 

OATKB 

RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 



My son, these maxims make a rule, 
\r(1 lump them aye thegither « 

Tbe Rt ?id Righteoofi is a fool. 
The Rig'.d Wla« aoither t 

The deasest oora that e'er was dight 
May has some pyles o* caff in ; 

Sae ne'«r a fellew-creatare slight 
Kor rtuidoBS fits o' daffin.— 

Bolomon^ — Ecoles. cb. vii. ver. 16. 



Ye'vn nought to An hnt mark and lell 
Your neebotir's faiits iicti folly I 

Wha»e lite ig like a weel |-aon mill, 
Suppljf 'd wi' Eture o' winter, 

rhe heapet tapper's phl>iiit( stiil. 
And siill the clap plajsclalier. 

IL 

Hear me, ye venerable eore, 

At counsel for poor mortals. 
That firequent pass douce Wisdom's door 

For elaikit Folly's portals i 
I, for melr thoughtless, careless sakes, 

Woold here propone defences. 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes 

Their failings and mischauces. 

TIL 
"!« see your state wi* theirs compared. 
And shoddf^' at the nifi'er, 

's fair regard, 



D ye wha are sae guid yoorsel, 
Sae pioos and b«« holy, 



Bat 

_What maks the mighty differ ? 
Discount what scant occasion gave 

T^at purity ve pride in. 
And (what's aft mair than a* the lam) 

Your better art o' hiding. 

IV. 

TTiiiik, when ytmr castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop. 
What ragings must bis veins convulse. 

That still eternal gallop > 
Wi ' wind and tide fair i' your tail. 

Right en ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' faiaith to sail. 

It maiu an ucco iee.way. 



Bee social life and glee sit down, 

All jo^YODs and unthinking. 
Till, ^uita transmogrified, they're grown 

Debauchery and dricking i 
O woald they stay to e&iculate, 

Th' eternal consequences 1 
Or yora- aiore dreaded hell to sute, 

DamnatioB of expenses 1 

TL 
Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames. 

Tied lip in godly laces. 
Before ye gie poor frailty names. 

Suppose a cnange o' cases ; 
A dear loved lad, oonTenience sntig 

A txeaeherona inclination 

But let me whisper i* your lug, 

Ye're aiblins oae temptation. 

VIL 
Then gently scan yoor brother man. 

Still gentler sister woman ; 
Tho' they mav gang a kennin wrang, 

I'o step aside is human ; 
One point must still be greatly dark. 

The moving why they do it ; 
And just tis Ivnely can ye mark, 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

VIIL 
Wbt made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us. 
He knows each chord — its various tone, 

E^eh spring — its various bias i 
Then at the balance let's be mute. 

We never can adjust it j 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY. 



Has anld Kilmarnock seen the Deil ! 

Or great M' f thrawn his heel ? 

Or R ■ i again grown weel 

To preach aa' read ! 
• Na, -waur than a' '■ ' cries ilka chiel, 

' Tam Samson 's dead ! * 

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane. 
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her laue, 
An' deed her bairns, man, wife, and wean 

In mourning weed ; 
To death, she's dearly paid the kane, 
Tam Samson's dead ! 

The brethren of the mystic level. 
May hing their head in woefu' bevel. 
While by their nose the tears will rerei. 

Like ony bead ! 
Death's gien the lodge an unco devel, 

Tam Samson's dead. 

When winter muffles np his cloak. 
And binds the mire like a rock ; 
AVhen to the lochs the curlers flock. 

AVi' gleesome speed ; 
\Vha will they station at the cock ? 

Tam Samson's dead^I 

He was the king o' a' the core. 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore. 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar. 

But now he lags on death's hog-score, 
Tam Samson's dead ! 

Now safe the stately sawmont sail, 

And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson bail. 

And eels weel kenn'd for souple.tail» 

And gleds for greed. 

Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail 

Tam Samson dead ! 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' : 
Ye cootie moorcocks crousely craw ; 
Ye maukins, cock your fuds fu' braw^ 

Withouten dread; 
Your mortal fae is now awa', 

Tam Samson's dead ! 



♦ When this worthy old sportsman went out 
iast muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, 
in Ossian's phrase, • the last of his fields ! ' and 
expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried 
in the muirs. On this hint, the author com- 
posed his elegy and epitaph. 

t A cenaiu preacher, a great favourite with 
the million. Vide the Ordination, Stanza II. 

% Another preacher, an equal favourite with 
the few, w ho was at that lime ailing. For hi 
gee also the Ordination, Siau; 



AVhile pointers round impatient born'd 
Frae couples freed ! 

But, och I he gaed and ne'er return 'd I 
Tam Samson's dead ! 

rain anld age his body batters ; 

n the gout his accles fetters ; 

n the burns came down like waters 

An acre braid I 
Now every anld wifegreetin', clatters, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Owre mony a weary hag he llmpit 
An' aye tbe tither shot he thumpit, 
""" ward death behind him jumpif 

Wi' deadly feid; 
Now he proclaims wi' tout o' trumpet, 
Tam Samson's dead! 

When at his heart he felt the dagger. 
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel-aim'dheed: 
•L— d, five!' he cried, an' owre did stagger' 

Tam Samson's dead! 

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; 
Yon auld grey stane amang the heather, 

Alarks out his head, 
Whare Burns has writ, in rhyming blether, 

Tam Samson 's dead ! 

There low he lies, in lasting rest : 
Perhaps upon his mould 'ring breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest. 

To hatch an' breed ; 
Alas I nao mair he '11 them molest ! 

Tam Samson 'ii dead. 

When August winds the heather wave. 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave. 
Three volleys let his mem'ry crave 

O ponther an' lead. 



Heaven rest his sanl, whare'er he be ! 
Is the wish o ' mony mae than me ; 
He had twafauts, or maybe thiee. 

Yet what remead ? 
Ae social, honest man, want we ; 

Tam Samson's dead I 



THE EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson 's weel-worn clay here lies. 
Ye canting zealots, spare him J 
honest worth in heaven rise. 
Ye '11 mend or ye won near him. 



PER CONTRA. 



i^ '■ 



riURNS — POEMS. 



Tell every social, honest billie. 

To cease his gricTin', 

For jet unskaithM bj death's gleg gullie, 
Tain Samson's liviu'. 



IlL 



HALLOWEEN. * 

[The following poem will, by many readers, 
be well enough understood ; but for the sake 
of those who are anacquainted with the i 
ners and traditions of the country wher 
ecene is cast, notes are added, to gire ; 
account of the principal charms and spells of 
that night, so big with prophecy to the pea. 
santry in the West of Scotland. The pas- 
sion of prying into futurity makes a strikiii' 
part of the history of human nature in it: 
rude state, in all ages and nations ; and i 
may be some entertainment to a philosophi( 
mind, if any such should honour the author 
with a perusal, to see the remains of it 
among the more unenlightened in our own.] 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the poor disdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial 16 my heart. 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art 

Goldsmith. 



The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when their line ; 
Their faces blithe, fu' sweetly kythe 

Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin' ; 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten. 
Some unco blaie, an' some wi' gabs. 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin' 

Whjles fast at night. 

IV. 

Then first and foremost, thro' the Vail, 

Their stocks % maun a' be sought ance 
They steek their een, an* graip an' wale. 

For muckle anes and strausht anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the^drift. 

An' wander'd thro' the bow-kail. 
An' pou't, for want o' better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 



I. 

tJpon that night, when fairies light. 

On Cassilis Downans t dance. 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze. 

On sprightly coursers prance ; 
Or for Colean the route is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams t 
There up the cove t to stray an' rove 

Amang the rocks and streams. 

To sport that night, 

II. 

Anoang the bonnie -winding banks 

Where Doon rins, wimplin', clear, 
%Vhere Bruce § ance ruled the martial ranks. 

An' shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks. 

Together did convene, 
To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, 

Aa' baud their Halloween i. 

Fu' blithe that night. 



* Is thought to be a night when -witches, 
devils, and other mischief-making beings, are 
all abroad on their baneful midnight errands ; 
particularly those aerial people, the Fairies, 
are said on that night to bold a grand anni- 
versary. 

"t" Certain little, romantic, rocky, green 
hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat 
of tbe Earls of Cassilis. 

% A noted cavern near Colean-house called 
The Cove of Colean; which, as Cassilis Dow- 
nans, is famed in country story for being a 
favourite haunt for fairies. 

§ The famous family of that name, the an- 
cestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his 
country, were Eark of Carrick. 



V. 

Then, stranght or crooked, yird or nane. 

They roar an' cry a' throu'ther j 
The very wee things todlin', rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther ; 
An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

W^i* joctelegs they taste them ; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' canoie care, they've placed then 
To lie that nignt. 



VI. 



g them a 



The lasses staw fi 

To pou their stalks o corn ;T 
But Rab slips out, and jinks about, 

Behint the muckle thorn ; 
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; 

Loud skirl *d a' the lasses ; 
But her lop-pickle maist was lost. 

When kiuttlin' in the fause-house** 
Wi' him that night. 



9 [] The first ceremony of Halloween, is pull- 
ing each a stock, or plant of kail. They mu^t 
go out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and 
pull thefij-st they meet with; Its being big or 
little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of tbe 
size and shape of the grand object of all their 
spells— the husband or wife. If any yird or 
earth stick to the root, that is tocher, or for- 
tune; and the taste of the custoc, that is, the 
heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural 
temper and disposition. — Lastly, the stems, or 
to give them their ordinary appellation, the 
runts, are placed somewhere above the head ot 
the door ; and the Christian names of the peo- 
ple whom chance brings into the house, are, 
according to the priority of placing the ruuts, 
the names in question. 

^ They go to the barn-yard, and pull each, 
at three several times, a stalk of oats. If the 
third stalk wants the top-pickle, that is, the 
grain at the top of the stalk, the party in 
question will come to the marriage bed any 
thing but a maid. 

** When the corn is in a doubtful state, by 
being too green, or wet, the slack-builder, by 
means of old timber, ,<tc. makes a large apart- 
ment in his stack, with an opening iu tbe side 
which is fairest exposed to the wind ; this ka 
calls a fause-hoUse. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



TIL 

llie aald guidwife'g weel-boordet oiti* 

Are round an' rmutd dirided, 
Aad monie Lads and Irssw* fiEUes, 

Are there that night deoMed : 
Some kindle eoathy, side by aide, 

Aa* bora tbeeither tiimlj i 
Some start awa' iTi' saooy pride. 

An' jamp out ovrre the ohimlie 

Fa' high that night. 

Tin. 

Jean slips In twa wl' lentie e'e | 

\Vha 'twas, she wadna t«ll ; 
Bat thie is Jock, ao' this i« in«. 

She WIV3 in to hersel* i 
He bleezM owre her, and sh« owre him, 

As they wad nerer mair part i 
1 ili fiitn he started up the Inm, 

Aii' Jean bad e'en a sair heart 

Tosee't that aight. 

IX. 

PoorWraie, vri» hU bow-kail mnt. 

Was brant wi' primsie ftlallie ; 
An' Mtillie, nae doubt, took the drunt, 

To be otimpared to Willie ; 
Mall's n't lap out wi' pridefu' fling, 

An ' her sin fit it brunt it ; 
While Willie lap, an' gwoor by iing, 

Twaa jt8t the way he wanted 
To be that night. 



Nell had the faase-hoose in her nun% 

She pits heriiel' an' Rob in ; 
la loving bleeze thej sweetly join. 

Till white in ase they're eobbin' i 
N'lll'a heurt was dancin' at the viewf 

She whisper'd Rob to look for 1 » 
Rob, Btowlios prie'd her boany mou, 

Fu' cozie in the nenk for't. 

Unseen that night 

XL 

But Merran sat behint their backs, 

Uer thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She lea'es mem gashin' at their cracks, 

And slips out by bersel' t 
She thro ' the yard the nearest taks, 

An' to the kiln she goes then. 
An' darklins graipit for the banks. 

And in the blue cloe)- throws then. 

Right fear't that night. 



* Barning the nuts is a favourite eharm. 
They name the lad and lass to each particul -.r 
nut, as they lay them in the fire, and 
accordingly as they bum ^•nielJy togetliM, 
or start from beside one another, the oocr»e 
and issue of the courtihip will be. 

t Whoever would, with snccest, try this 
spell, must strictly obserre these directions : 
Steal out, all atone, to the kiln, and, darkling, 
throw into the pot 6 clce of blue jara ; wind it 
in a new clue 06° the old one t and, towards 
the latter end, gomrthing will told the thread, 
demand Wha bauds ? i. «. who holds t an an- 
swer will be returned from the kOn-pot, by 
uaming the ChriBtiaa aad simanw of your fd- 
tiure gpoiis^ 



XIL 



An* aye she win 't, an' aye she swaf, 

I wa! she mader nae jankiu' \ 
Till ionjeibing held within the pat, 

Guid L — di but she was qoafcm' t 
But whether twa» the DeU himsel. 

Or whether 'twas a bank-en'. 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She did na wait on talkin' 

To spier that Bight. 

XIIL 

Wee Jenny to her grannie says, 

•• WiU je ffo wi ■ me grannie ? 
I'D eat the apple; at the glass, 

I gat frae nncle Johnie :" 
She fuif 't her pipe wi' sic a lant. 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin'f 
She noticet na, an aizle bront 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' that night. 

XIV. 
** Y» Kttle skelpie-limmer's feoe I 

How daor ye try sic sportin*. 
As seek ih« foiil Thief ony place. 

For bim to »pao your fortune I 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ; 

Great cause ye hoe to fear it ; 

or monie a ane has gotten a fright, 

An' lived an' died deleeret 

On sic a night. 

XV. 

•• Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, 
I mind't as weel's yestreen, 
was a gilpey then, I'm sure 
I was na past fyfteen 1 

The simmer had been canld an* watr 
An' staff was unco green 1 

An' aye a raatin kirn we gat. 



XVL 

** Oar ijtibble rig was Rab M'Graea, 

A clever, sturdy fellow ; 
He's tin' gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

That lived in Acbmacalla: 
He gat bemp'seed,$ I mind it weel, 

Aa' he made ui:co light o't ; 



^ Take a candle, and go alone to a looking- 
glass J eat an apple befure it, and some traiii- 
tioRS say, yon should comb your hair all the 
time ; the face of your conjugal companion, to 
be, will te seen in the glass, as if peeping over 
y»ur shoulder. * 

§ Steal OEt unperceived, and sow a handful 
of hemp-seed ; harrowing it with any thing you 
can conveniently draw eJte? you. Repeat now 
and then, • Hemp-seed ( saw iheej hemp-seed 
I saw thee ; and him (or h«r) that is to be my 
true-love, come after me and pon thee. ' Look 
overyear left sboulder, and you will see the 
appearance of the person lovosed, in the atti- 
tude of polling bemp. Some traditions »ayp 
' come aftw mo, and shaw thee,' that is, show 
thyselfi in which case it simply appears. 
Others omit the harrowii:^, and say, ' come 
afts me, and harrow the*.' 



BURNS P0E5IS. 



Bat Konic a inj wts by himMl't 
Ue waa MM Mirlj frightW 

Tbat ver»«lglil." 

XVIL 

Tb«n mp ft fMhtin' Jami* Fladc* 
Aa' he aweer by his eonteienee. 



Aa ne aweer by his eomcieucvf 
Hat h« ooald mw bemp-M«d a pack f 

Far it was a* but Bonscnse t 
The aald gvid-oian raiight dcwn tiiM pocfc, 

An' ont a handfa' giMl him ; 
Syne bad him slip fra« 'mang the folk, 

Som«<ime when oae ana see'd himt 
An* tiy*t that nigbc 



xTin. 

He marches thrv'amaag th« etaeka. 

The' he vras somathin^ Btartia, 
The graip h« for a harrow taka, 

Aa' brarla at his enrpim t 
An' every now an' then ha says, 

** Hemp-seed I saw thee. 
An' her that is to be my lass. 

Come after iDe> and draw the«, 

6ka fast this night. * 

XIX. 
He whistled ap Lord Lennox' mareUt 

To keep his courage cheery { 
Altho' his hair bejran to arch. 

He was sae fley'd an' eerie i 
T^U presently he hears a squeak. 

An' then a ^raoe an' fmntle ; 
Be by his sbonlder gae a keek. 

An' tumbled wi' a wintle, 

Out-owre tbat night. 



XX. 

- ue «)arM a horrid murder sfaont, 
d In dr<>aJfu* desperation ! 

Ab' yoDi.g an' auld cam rinnin' out. 

To hear the sad narration i 
Ue swuor 'twas liilcbin Jean M'Oaw, 

Or cronchie Merran Horaphie, 

Till stop I she trotted thro' them a' ; 

An' wha was it but Gruraphie 

Asteer that night I 

XXL 

Meg fain wad to the barn hae gane. 
To win three wechts o' naething ;♦ 

Bat for to meet the deil her lane, 
6he pat bnt little faith in t 



* This charm must likewise be performed 
■npereeived, and alone. Yon go to the barn, 
open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if 
possible; for there is danger that the being 
about to appear, may shut the doors, and do 
yon some mischief. Then take that instrument 
1 ;„ _:..,.«,.;n^ .1,0 com, which, in '■"- 



against the wind, llepeat it three times ; and 
the third time an apparition will pass tfaroogh 
the barn, in at the windy door, and «ut at &• 
•thcr, haviaf bath the fijpira m qoestion, and 
Um appiiiaanoa or ratinua, narking tha em- 
pluyiBcat or lUtion in life. 



To watch, wtiile for the bem she seto. 
In hopes to see T%m Kipples 

nri — . ..^-^ night* 



That VI 



XXIL 

She tarns the key wi' eannia thraw, 
Aa' owra the threshold Tentnrtss; 

Bnt first on Sawnie gies a ea*. 
Syne banldl; io she enters ) 



An' ran thro' middenshole a 
Aa' pray'd wi' «eal an' fenour 

Fn' fast that ni^bC 

xxnL 

T%«T hor't ont Will, wi' sair adriee; 

Thea heeht him some fine braw ane ; 
It chancad tha stack he faddom 'd thr iea f 

Was timmer-prapt for thrawin' ; 
He taks a swirbe aald moss-oak. 

For some black, gruesome carlin ; 
An' loot & wince, on' drew a istroke. 

Till skin is blypos cam hanriin 

Aff's nieres that night. 

XXIV. 
A wanton widow Leezie wae. 

As canty as a kittlen 1 
But Och t that night amang the shawsjt 

She got a fearfu' settlin' I 
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, 

An' owre tb« hill gaed scrieTin',, 
Where three lairds' lands met at a burn,^ 

To dip her left sark-sleere in. 

Was bent that ni^ht. 

XXV. 

Whyles ower a linn the burnie plays. 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't : 
Whvles round a rocky scaur it strays ; 

VVhyles in a wiel it dimpl't i 
Whyles glitter 'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
WTiyles cookit niiderneatb the braes. 

Below the spreading hazel. 

Unseen that nighu 

XXVL 

Amang the brackens, on the brae. 

Between her an' the moon. 
The deil, or else an ontler qney» 

Gat up an' gaa a croon } 



+ Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, 
to a bear-stack, and fathom it three limes 
round. The last fathom of the last time, you 
«ill catch in your arms the appearance of your 
conjugal yoke-fellow. 

^ You go out, one or more, for this is a 
social spell, to a south running spring or ri-ru- 
let, where * three lairds' lands meet, ' and dip 
your left shirt sleere. Go to bed in sight of a 
fire, and hang your wet-slecTe before it 10 dry. 
Lie awake ( and some time near midnight, aa 
apparition haTing the exact figure (^ tn« grand 
object in question, will come and turn the aleeva 
as it to dry tha other side of i' 



188 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; 

Near lav'rock-height she juiupit. 
But niiss'd a fit, an' in the pocL 

Out owre the lugs she plunipil. 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

XXVII. 
In order, on the clean hearth-stane. 

The luggies three * arc ranged. 
And ev'ry time great care is ta'eu. 

To see them duly changed ; 
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin iSlar's-year did desire. 
Because he gat the (oom-dish thrice. 

He heaved theui on the fire. 

In wrath that night. 

XXVIII. 

Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat they didna weary ; 
All' unco tales, and funnie jokes. 

Their sports were cheap an' cheery : 
Till butter 'd so'ns,f wi' fragrant luut, 

Set a' their gabs a-steeriu' ; 
Bjne, wi' a social glass o' strunt. 

They parted aff careerin' 

Fu' blythe that night. 



AULD FARMER'S 

KSW-YBAR MORNLNQ SALUTATION TO HIS 

AULD MARE MAGGIE, 



A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie: 
Tho' thou's howe-backit now an' kuaggie, 

I've seen the day. 
Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie 

Out owre the lay. 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy. 
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, au' glaizie, 

A bonnie gray : 
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee 

Auce in a day. 



* Take three dishes, put clean water in one, 
foul water in another, leave the third empty ; 
blindfold a person, and lead him to the hearth 
where the dishes are ranged : he (or she) dips 
the left hand ; if by chance in the clean water, 
the future husband or wife will come to the bar 
of matrimony a maid ; if in the foul, a widow ; 
if in the empty dish, it foretells with equal 
certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated 
three times, and every time the arrangement 
€>f the dishes is altered. 

+ Sowens, with butter instead of milk in 
eiem, is always the Halloween Supper. 



An' set weel down a shapely shank 
As e'er tred y ird ; 

An' could hae flown out-owre a stank. 
Like onie bird. 

It's now some nine-an'-twenty year 
Sin' thou was my guid father's meere ; 
He gied me ihee, o' tocher clear. 

An' fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear. 

An' thou was stark. 



When first I eaed t( 






quiet, 



I 



An' unco sonsie. 

That day, ye pranced wi' muckle p 
VN hen ye bure hame my bonnie bride 
An' sweet an* gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air • 
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide 



Fors 



a pair. 



au muiic imc a saumont-coblet 
That day ye was a jinker noble. 

For heels an' win'! 
An' ran them till they a' did wauble» 

Far, far behiu'. 

When thou an' I were young and skeigh, 
An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh. 
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skrei| 

An' tak the road ! 
Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, 

An' ca't thee mad. 

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow. 
We took the road aye like a swallow : 
At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow. 

For pith an' speed ; 
But every tail thou pay't them hallow, 

Whare'er thou gaed. 



1 



The sma', droop-rumpl t, hunter cat 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle; 



cattle. 



cotch miles thi 



liles thou try't their mettlcf 
An' gar't them whaizle : 
IT, but just a wattle 



Al. j,_. . — __. 

Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 
O' saugh or hazel. 



Aft thee an' I, in aught hours' gauD, 

On guid March weather» 

Hae turned sax rood beside our hau'. 
For days thegither. 

Thou never brrjndg't, an' fetch't, an' fliski 
But thy auld tail thoa wad hae whitkit. 
An' spread abreed thy weel-filled brisket, 

Wi' pith an' pow'r. 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't an* risket. 
An' Mypet owre. 

When frosts lay iang, an' snaws were dee^ | 
An' threaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap 

Aboon the timmer: 
I ken'd my Maggie wadna sleep 

For that, or simmer. 



BURNS.— POEMS. 



' In cart or car thou never reesti( ; 
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it : 
Thou never lap, aud sten't, and breastit, 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But, just thy step a wee thin? hastit, 

Thousnoov't awa. 

My plengh is now thy bairn-tirae a' : 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 
Forbje sax mae, I've aell't awa, 

That thou hast nnrst:, 
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, 

The vera warst. 

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought. 
An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! 
An' monie an anxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy asre we're brought, 
Wi' soniething yet. 

And think na, my anld, trusty servan'. 
That now perhaps thon's less deservin'. 
An' thy auld days may end in starvin'. 

For my last fou, 
A heapit stimparf, I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We're worn to crazy years thegither ; 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither; 
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tetber. 

To some hain'd rig, 
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 

Wi' sma' fatigue. 



Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie« 

what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na' start asva sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle! 

1 wad be laith to rin an' chase ihee, 

Wi' murd'riug pattle ! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union. 
An' justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-lorn companion 

Au' fellow mortal ! 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What ihei. ? poor beastie, thou maun live! 
A daimen icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request: 
I'll get a blessin* wi' the lave. 

And never miss't! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin'! 
An' naething, now to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green I 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Bailh Euell and keen ! 

Tbor saw the fields laid bare an' waste» 
An* weary winter comin' fast, — 



An' cozie here beneath the blast; 

Thou ihoueht to dwell, 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble. 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble 1 
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble. 

To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' craureuch cauld. 

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane. 
In proving foresignt may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men i 

Gang aft agley. 
An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain. 

For promised joy. 

Still thou art blest, compared wi' m« J 
The present only toucheththee : 
But Och I I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects dear 
An' forward, though 1 canna see, * 

I guess an' fear. , 



A WINTER NIGHT. 



Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, 
That bide the pelting of this pitiless st<wm I 
How shall ^our houseless heads, and unfed 

sides, 
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend 

From seasons such as these ? — Shakspeare^ 



WTien biting Boreas, fell and doure. 
Sharp shivers through the leafless bow'r; 
When Fhffibnsgi'es a short-lived glow'r 

Far south the lift. 
Dim-darkening through the flaky show'r 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked. 
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked. 
While burns wi' snawy wreaths up chocked 

Wild-eddying swirl. 
Or through the mining outlet bocked, 

Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning, the doors au' winnocks raltlej 
I thought me on the ourie cattle. 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 



Hk happing bird, wee, helpless thing. 
That in the merry month o' spring. 
Delighted me to hear thee sing. 

What comes o' thee * 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 
An' close thy e'e ? 

Even you on mnrd'ring errands toiled. 
Lone from your savage homes exiled. 
The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cote spoiled 
My heart forgets. 



DIAMOND C^BU«BT LlBMAaif, 



Now Phebe, in her midnight reign, 
Dark muUUed, viewed the drearj plain| 
^tUl cm w ding tbou|rbts, a pensive traiiif 

Rose in m^ soul. 
When OB mj ear thie plaintiTa stmio* 

Slow, Mlamn Mole— 

* Blow* blow fo windst with he&viar past ! 
And fre«E«, ve bitter-biting frost } 
Desoeodf ;• chilly, tniotkerin^ anows ; 
Kot all roar ra^e, M now, united, shows 

More bsrd ankiadnefis, nnrelenting, 

Tenccfui maliee nnrepentiog. 
Hub ae»vsn-illamin*d man on brother man 
bee towel 

Bee stern Oppreenon's iron grip. 
Or oiad Ambition'* gorj hand. 

Sending, like blood-bounde from the flip. 
Woe, Want, and Murder o'er * Uod t 

Even in the peacefol rural vale, 

TVnth weeping, telle the oioarafU tale. 
How pampered Laxnry, Flait'ry by b«r tide. 

The parasite empoiBOoin^ her ear. 

With all the (errile wretches in the rear. 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 

And eyea the simple rustic hind. 

Whose toil upholds the (flittering show, 

A creature of another kind. 

Some coarser substance, unrefined. 
Placed for her l<wdlj ase thus far, thus rile, 

^Vhere, where b Love's fond, tender throe, 
With lordly Honour's lofty brow. 

The powers ye proudly cwu ? 
li there, beneath Lore's noble onme. 
Can harbour, dark, the seltish aim. 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden-innocence a prey 

To love-pretending snares. 
This boasting Honour turns away, 
Shuuiiiug sort Pity's rising sway. 
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing 
pray'rs! 
Perhaps, this hour, in Mis'ry's squalid 

She strains your Infant to her joyless 

^ud with a mother's femrs shrinks at the rock- 
ing blast! 

Oh ye : who, gunk in beds of down. 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Tbitk, for a moment, on bis wretched faie, 

VVhoni friends and fortune quite disown ; 
Ul-satistied keen Nature's clamorous call, 

htietch'd on his stiaw he lays himself f 

While thro' the rugged roof, and cbiriky wall. 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty 
heap ! 
Think on the dungeon's grim eonbne. 
Where guilt and poor inibfortune piiiel 
Guilt, erring man, relenting view { 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
1h« wretch already crushed low 
By cruel Fortan«*s undeserved blow t 



And haO'd the momtng trith a obeer, 



Bat<l6*ptUstTathii . 

Tbro' all his works abroad. 
Hie heart benevolent and kind 

Tht most rasemblee God. 



EPISTLB TO DAVIE, 

A BBOTHBH POST.* 

Jamtarj/ 

While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw. 
And bar the doors wi' driving enaw. 

And faing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time. 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme» 

In hamely westlon' jingle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the cbimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folk's gifl, 
That live sae bein and snug : 
I tent less, and want less 

Their roomy fireside ; 
But hanker and canker. 
To see their cursed pride. 

IL 
It's hardly in a body's pow'r 
To keep at tim«9 frae being sour. 
To see how things are shared ; 
How best o' chiels are whyles in want. 
While coofs on countless tbonsaiids rant. 

An' ken nae how to wair't ; 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 

Tho* we hae little gear. 
We're fit to win our daily bread. 
As lang's we're hale and tier : 
• AJair spier na, nor fear iia'.f 

Auld ago ne'er mind a feg. 
The last o't, the warst o't. 
Is only for to beg. 

IIL 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en. 

When banes are crazed and bluid is thin. 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then, content could make as blest ; 
Ev'n then sometimes we'd snatch a taate 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's fVee frae a* 

Intended fraud or guile. 
However fortune kick the ba'. 
Has aye some cause to smile ; 
And mind still you 11 find still, 

A comfort this nae tma' : 
Nae mair (hen, we'll care then, 
Nae farther can we fa' 



What thongh like eommoners of sir 
We wander out we know not whore. 
Bat either house or hall T 



I hoard nae mair, for Chanticleer 
bhook off the poathery sna.T, 



I * Dand Siltar, one of theclob at TarboltoB, 
j and author of a volume of poems in the Scot* 

(isb dialect. 
I -f- Ratiuay^. 



BtlRN8._P0Elld8. 



Tflt mtnT*** dharma, the hilU and woods. 



d blackbirds wblstie «lear. 

With hoa«Bt joy ocr faearU will bound. 
To s«e the coming y*ar. 
On brtes when we please, then. 
We'll ait and sowth a tone | 
Syne rh^me till't, we'll time tiU't, 
And siug't when we hae done* 
V. 
It's no in titliw nor in rank } 
It'a no in wealth like Lon'oa bank. 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in making muckle mair < 
It's no in books ; it's no in lear. 

To mak us truly blest 1 
If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre iu the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great. 
But ne-.-er can be blest t 
Nae treasares, nor pleasnres 
Could mak as happy lang^ 
The heart aje's the part aye. 
That makes us right or wrang. 
VL 
Think ye, that sic at you and 1, 
\Vt:a drudge and driye through wet an' diy, 

VVi' never-ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 

A» hardly worth their whUe ? 

Alasi ! how oft in haughty mood, 

Ood's creatures they oppress t 

Or else negiecting a' that's guid, 

'Ibey riot in excess, 

Baith careless and fearless 
Ot either heaven or hell 
Esteeming and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale i 

VIL 

Then let ns cheerfu' acquiesce ; 
Mur make our scanty pleasures less. 

By pining at our state ; 
And. even should misfortunes come, 
1 here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thaiikfu' tor them yet. 

Tiiej gie the wit of age to youth} 

Tli<^) let us ken oursel' { 

They malce us see the naked truth. 

The real guid and ill. 

The' losses and crosses. 

Be lessons right severe. 
There's wit there, ye'll get there. 
Ye '11 find oae other where. 

VIIL 

But tent me, Davie, ace o* hearts I 

(To say aught else wad wrang the cartes^ 

And tiatt'ry I detest) 
This life has joys for yon and I ! 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy ; 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart. 

The lover an the frien ' ; 
¥e have your Meg, yoor dearest part, 
,And I my darling Jenn 1 

It warms me, it charms me ; 
To mention but her name ; 
It heats me, it beats me. 
It sets me a* on flam« ! 



IX. 



O all ye Powers who rule above ! 
O Thou whose very self art lore I 

lliou knowest my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart. 
Or my more dear immortal part. 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my sool of rest. 
Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, All-seeing, 

O hear my fervent prayer t 

Still take her, and make her 

Thy most peculiar care t 

X. 

AH hail, ye tender feelinga dear I 
The smile of love, the friendly tear. 

The sympathetic glow ; 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had number'd out my weary days. 

Had it not been for yon ! 
Fate still has blest me with a friend. 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene. 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 

XL 

O, how that name inspires my style 1 
The words come skelpia' rank an' filej 

Amaist before 1 ken ! 
The ready measure rius as fine. 
Am PhcBbus and the famoas Nine 

Were glow'rin owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp. 

Till ance he's fairly hct ; 
And then he'll hitch, and stilt, and jimp. 
An rin an unco fit ; 
But lest then, the beast then. 

Should rue his hasty ride, 

I'll light now, and dight now 

His sweaty wizen'd hide. 



THE LAMENT, 



OCCASIONED BY THB UNTORTUNATB 

issoB OF A friend's AMOUK. 



Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound itself. 
And sweet Affection prove the spring of woe 



O thou pale orb, that silent shines, 

While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! 
Thou seest a wretch that inly pines. 

And wanders here to wail and weep J 
With woe I nightly vigils keep. 

Beneath thy wan anwarming beam ; 
And mourn in lamentation deep. 

How life and love are all a dream. 

IL 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



mbrance, C( 
Ah! must the agonizing thrill 
For ever bar returning peace? 



No si ... 

No fabled tortuies, quaint and tame. 
The plighted faith; the mutual flame; 

The off-attestei powers above; 
The promised Father's tender name; 

These weie the pledges of my love 1 

IV. 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptur d moments flown. 
How have I wished for Fortune's charms! 

For her dear sake, and her's alone. 
And must I think it? is she gone. 

My secret heart's exulting boast; 
And does she heedlessnear my groani 

And is she ever, ever lost? 

V. 

Oh, can she bear so base a heart. 

So lost to honour, lost to truth. 
As from the fondest lover part. 

The plighted husband of her youth? 
Alas! life's path may beunsmooth. 

Her way may lie thro' rough distress; 
Then, who her pangs and pains will sooth ; 

Her sorrows share, and make them less? 

VI. 
Ye winged hours that o'er us past , 

Enraptur d more, the more enjoy'd. 
Your dear remembrance in my breast. 

My fondly-treasured thoughts employ'd. 
That breast how dreary now and jjpid. 

For her too scanty once of rooih! 
E'en every ray of hope destroyed. 

And not a wish to gild the gloom. 



The mom 

Awakes me up to toil and woe, 
I see the hours in long array. 

That I must sufFer,^ingering, slow. 
Full many a pang, and many a throe, 

K^en recollection's direful train. 
Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low. 

Shall kibs the distant, western main. 

VII. 

And when my nightly couch I try. 

Sore harras'd out with care and grief. 
My toil-beat nerves and tear- worn eye 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief: 
Or if I slumber, fancy, chief. 

Reigns haggard wild, in sore affright; 
EVn day, all bitter, brings relief. 

From such a horror-breathing night. 

IX. 

fp thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse 
Now highest reigri'st, with boundless swaj 

Oft has thy-silent-markiiig glance 
Observ'dus fondly wandering, stray; 

The time unheeded, sped away. 

While love's luxurious pulse cat high, 



Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set; 

Scenes, never, never to retain; 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget. 

Again I feel, again I bum. 
From every joy and pleasure torn. 

I^ife'sweaiy vale I'll wander thro's 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll moum 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



DESPONDENCY. 



Oppress' c! with grief, oppress'd with ear** 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I sit me down and sigh: 
O life, thou art a galling load. 
Along a rough, a weary road. 

To wretches such as I: 
Dim backward as I cast my view, 

Whatsickning scenes appear; ^ 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro 
Toojustly I may fear; 
Still earing, despairing. 

Must be'my bitter doom; 

My woes here, shall close ne'er. 

But with the closing tomb. 

IT. 

Happy, yesons of busy life. 
Who, equal to the bustling strife. 

No other view regard: 
Ev'n when the wished end's denied. 
Yet while the busy means are plied. 

They bring their own reward: 
Whilst I , a hope-abandoned wight. 

Unfitted with an aim, _ 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night. 
And joyless morn the same: 
You, bustling andjustling. 

Forget each grief and pain, 
I, listless, yet restless. 
Find ev'ry prospect vain. 

III. 

How blest the solitary's lot. 
Who, all-forgetting, all forgot. 

Within his humble cell. 
The cavern wild with tangling roots. 
Sits o'er his newly-gathered fruits. 

Beside his crystal well: 
Or haply, to his evening thought, 

Bv unfrequented stream. 
The ways of men are distant brought 
A faint-collected dream; 
While praising, and raising, 

His thoughts to heaven on higU, 
As wand' ring, meand'ring, 
i H e V iews the solemn sky. 

IV. 

Than 1, no lonely hermit placed 
Where never human footstep traced. 

Less fit to play the part: 
The lucky moment to improve. 
Add just to stop, and just to move. 
With self-respecting art: 



BURNS POEMS, 



But fth ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, 

Which I too keeal; taste. 
The Bolitar; caa despise. 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not. 

Or human love or hate, 
fVhilst I here must cry here, 
At perfidy ingrate 1 



V. 

Ob ! enviable, early day?. 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, 

To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill exchanged for riper times, 
To feel the follies, or the crimes. 

Of others or my own : 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport. 

Like linnets in the bush. 
Ye litUe know tne ills ye court. 
When manhood is your wish ! 
The losses, the crosses. 

That active men engage ! 

The fears all, the tears all. 

Of dim decliuing age! 



The wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw ! 
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
'While tumbling brown, the burn comes down. 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest. 

And pass the heartless da;. 



II. 

••The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast, "* 

The joyless winter day. 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul. 

My griefs it seems to join. 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine ! 



IIL 

JTion Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine foltil. 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best. 

Because they are thy will ! 
Then all I want (0, do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny. 

Assist me to re^igiu 



* Dr Young. 



THB 
COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

INSCRIBKD TO B. AITKEN, ESQ. 



Let not ambition mock their useful toil. 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smilef 
The short but simple annals of the poor. 



My loved, my honour'd, much respected 

No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride I scorn each seltish end : 
Wy dearest meed, a friend's esteeiu ana 

To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays. 
The lowly train in life's sequestered 

The native feelings strong, the guileless 

What Aitken in a cottage wonld have 

Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier 
there, I ween. 

II. 

November chill blaws load wi ' angry sough ; 
The short'ning winter day is near a 

The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 
The black'ning trains o' craws to their 

The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes. 

This night his weekly moil is at an end. 

Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to 
spend. 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does 
hameward bend. 

III. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view. 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee things, toddlin, stacher 
thro' 
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin* noise 
an' glee. 



The lisping infant prattlinjon his knee. 
Does a' his weary carking cares beguile. 
And makes bim quite forget his labours an' h 
toil. 



Belyve the elder bairns come arapping in. 

At service out amang the tarmera roun' ; 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tcu> 



In youthfu' bloom, love sparUin' in 1 



194 



DUMOND CABIKET LIBRARY. 



CoatdE hame, perhaps, to sbow a bra' new 
gown. 
Of deposit her sajr-won penny fee? 
To help ba p&renu dear, if ttiej in hardship 



Wi* joy nnfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 

An^ each for oLher's weelfaxe kindly 

spiers : 

Tbe social hoars, ewifunlng'd, unnoticed 

fleet ; 

Each tells the nncos that he sees or hears ; 

The parents, pania.1, eye their hopeful 



Anticipation forward pointi 

The motner, wi' her needle t 

Gars auld claes luck amais 



the view ; 
n' her shears, 
as weel 's the 



Hie father mixes a* wi* admonition due. 

TL 
Theb master's an' their mistress's com- 
mand. 
The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
And mmd their labours wi' an eydent 
baud, 
Aud ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or 
play ; 
♦ An' O 1 be sure to fear the Lord alway I 
An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' 
night ; 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 
Lnplore his cuuosel and assistir.g might ; 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord 
aright ! » 



VIT, 

I a rap comes g( 
wba kens the 



sntly to the door, 



• the 

Tells huw a neebor lad cam o'er the moor. 
To do some errands, and couvoy her 

The Wily mother sees the conscious flame 
SpuTKle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her 
cheek ; 
Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his 



name. 
While Jenny hafflins is afi-aid t 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears it': 
worthless rake. 



speak ; 



VIIT. 

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 
A strappin youth ; he taks the mother's 
e'e; 
Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no iU ta'en ; 
The father cracks of horses, pieughs, and 
kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' 

joy. 

But blate and laithfu*, scarce can weel 

The mother wi' a woman's wiles can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' 
sae grave ; 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected lie 
the lave. 

IX. 

O happy lore ! where lore like this b found ! 
O Heart-felt raptures I bliss beyond com- 
pare 



I've paced much this weary mortal roond. 

And sage experience bids me this declar*. 

' If Heaven a draught of heavenly plei 

spare, 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 

'TIS when a youthful loving modest pair. 

In other's arms breathe out U 

tale. 

Beneath the milk-white thorn that s 

ev'ning gale.' 



I 



Is there, in human form, that bears a 

A wretch I b villain 1 lost to love and 
truth : 
That can,wifh studied, sly, ensnaring art. 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? 
Curse on his perjured arts I dissembling 
smooth ! 
Are honour, virtue, conscience all exiled ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their 
child I 
Then paints the min'd maid, and their dis- 
traction wild ? 

XL 

But now the sapper crowns (heir simple 
board. 
The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia'g 
food: 
The sowpe their only Hawkie does afford. 
That yont the hallau snugly chows her 

The dame brings forth in complimentaj 



To grace the lad, h( 
buck fell. 
An' aft he's^jrest, an' aft h( 
The frugal witie, garrulou 
How 'twas a towmond asld, sin' 
thebelL 

xn. 

The cheerfu' supper done, ' 
l"hey, round the ingle, 



weel-hain'd keb- 

a's it gnid ; 
will tell. 



His bonnet 
His Ivart 
Those 



itly is laid aside, 
rt nacets wearing thin an' bare : 
ains that once did sweet in Zioa 



xm. 

They chant their artless notes ia simple 
guise; 
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 



Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling i 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the 
Or noble Elgin beets the heav'n-ward 



BURNS.— POEMS. 



The tickled eaw no heart-felt rapturea 
raise ; 
Nae uuison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

XIV. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page. 
How Abram was the friend of God on 
high; 

Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
With Amalek's ungracious progeny ;] 

Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 
Beneath the strolie of Heaven's avenging 

Or, Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 

Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 



Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was 
shed; 
,How He, who bore in heaven the second 
name. 
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; 
How his first followers and servants sped ; 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a 

How he, who lone in Patmos banished. 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
/knd heard great Bab 'Ion's doom pronounced 
by Heaven's command. 

XVI. 

Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal 
King, 
The saint, the father, and the husband 
prays : 
Hope « springs exulting on triumphant 
wing,'*- 
That thus they all shall meet in future 
days: 
There ever bask in uncreated rays. 

No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear. 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear ; 
"While circling time moves round in an eternal 
sphere. 



Compared 
pride. 

In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide. 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
The Pow'r incensed the pageant will desert. 
The pompons strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart. 

Way hear, well-pleased, the language of 
the soul : 
Aad in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. 

xviir. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral 
way ; 
The youngling cottagers retire to rest. 
The parent pair their secret homage pay. 
And profler up to Heav'n the warm re- 
quest. 
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous 
nest. 
And decks the lily &lc in flow 'ry pride. 



* Fc^'b WIndw Forest. 



Would in the way his wisdom sees the best. 
For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 

XIX. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 
springs. 
That makes her loved at home, revered 
abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of 
kings, 
•♦ An honest man's the noblest work of 
God!" 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road. 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 

What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumb'rous 

load 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. 

Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness reUned J 

XX. 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil. 
For whom my warmest, wish to Heaven 
is sent ! 

Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil. 
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet 

And, O : may Heaven their simple lives 
prevent 
From Luxury's coniagion, weak and vile: 
Then, howe'er crowns aad coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of lire around their much 
loved Isle. 

XXL 

O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide, 
. That stream 'd thro* Wallace's undaunted 

heart : 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 
Or nobly die, the second glurious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art. 
His friend, iuspirer, guardian, and re- 
ward!) 
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; 
But, still the patriot and the patriot bard. 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and 
guard I 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 



When chill November'.-, surly blast 

Wade fields and forests bare. 
One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spy'd a man, whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow 'd o'er with years. 

And hoary was his Jiair. 

IL 

Young stranger, whither wand'rest Ihoa ! 

Began the rev 'rend sage ; 
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain. 

Or youthful pleasure's rage I 
Or, haply, prest with care, and woes. 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me t« monra. 

The miseries of man I 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



IIL 



The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out-spreading far and wide, 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride ; 
I've seen yon weary wioter-suu 

Twice forty times return ; 
A.ad ev'ry time has added proofs 

That man was made to mourn. 

IV. 

O man ! •while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Mispending all thy precious hours ; 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force give Nature's law, 

That man was made to mourn. 



This partial view of human-kiiid 

Is surely not the last ! 
The poor, oppressed, honest 

Had never, sure, been born. 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

XI. 

Death ! the poor man 'g dearest frieadt 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest. 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow» 

From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
But Oh I a blest relief to these 

That weary-ladeu, mourn J 



Look not alone on youthful prime. 

Or manhood's active might ; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported is his right : 
But see him on the edge of life. 

With cares and sorrows worn. 
Then age and want. Oh ! ill-match'd pair t 

Show man was made to mourn. 

VL 

A few seem favourites of fate. 

In pleasure's lap carest ; 
Yet, think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, Oh ! what crowds in every land. 

Are wretched and forlorn ; 
Thro' weary life this lesson learn. 

That maa was made to mourn. 

VIL 

Many and sharp the num'rous ills, 

Inwoven with our frame I 
More pointed still we make ourselves. 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man, 
. Makes countless thousands mourn ! 

VIIL 

See yonder poor, o'erlaboured wight. 

So abject, mean, and vile. 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn. 
Unmindful tlio' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspricg moura 

IX. 

If I'm designed yon lordling's slave- 
By Nature's law design 'd. 

Why was an independent wish 
E 'er planted in my mind ? 

If not, why am I subject to 
His cruelty or scorn ? 

Or why has man the will and pow 'r 
To make his fellow mourn ? 

X. 



IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 



O thou unknown Almighty Cause 
Of all my hope aud fear ! 

In whose dread presence, ere an he 
Perhaps I must appear 1 



If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun: 
As something loudly, in my breast. 

Remonstrates I have done ; 



Thou know'stthat Thou hast formed 
With passions wild and strong ; 

And list'ning to their witching voice. 
Has often led me wrong. 



Where human weakness has come sbort. 

Or frailty stept aside. 
Do thou All Good : for such thoa art. 

In shades of darkness hide. 



Where with intention I have err'd. 

No other plea I have. 
But Thou art good ; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



STANZAS 

ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Why am I loath to leave this earthly 
scene ? 
Have I so found it full of pleasing 
charms ? 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- 
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewed 

Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ; 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode P 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath bis sia-aveDgiDi; TO<i> 



BURNS 

Fain would I say, * Forgive my foul of- 
fence !' 
Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
£ut> should my Author health again dis- 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray ; 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Then how should 1 for heavenly mercy 
pray, 
Who act so counter heavenly mercy's 
plan? 
Who sin so oft have mourned, yet to tempta- 



O Thou great Governor of all below. 
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to 
blow, 
Or still the tumult of the raging sea ; 
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me. 
Those headlong furious passions to con- 
fine ; 
For all unfit I feel my pow 'rs to be, 
To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ; 
1) aid me with thy help. Omnipotence Divine! 



LTirSO AT A REVBREND FRIEND's HOUSE 
ONE NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE 



THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT 



O Thou dread Pow'r who reign'st above, 

1 know thou wilt me hear. 
When from this scene of peace and lovCf 

1 make my prayer sincere. 



The hoary sire— the mortal stroke 
Long, long be pleased to spare^ 

To bless his little filial ilock. 
And show what good men are. 



She, who her lovely offspring eyesi 
With tender hopes and fears, 

O bless her with a mother's joys. 
But spare a mother's tears ! 



Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, 
In manhood's dawning blush ; 

Bless him, thou God of love and truth. 
Up to a parent's wish t 



The beauteous, seraph sister-band. 

With earnest tears I pray, 
Thou kuow'st the snares on ev'ry hand. 

Guide thou their steps alway ! 



When soon or late they reach that coast, 
O'er life's rough ocean driv'n. 

May they rejoice, no wand 'rer lost, 
A family in Ueav 'a I 



BURNS POEMS. 



THE FIRST PSALM. 

The man, in life wherever placed. 

Hath happiness in store, 
Who walks not in the wicked's way. 

Nor learns their guiltj lore ! 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad. 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
AVhich by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on high, 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt 
Shall to the ground be cast. 

And like the rootless stubble, toss'd 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore 
Hath giv'n them peace and rest. 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



O Thou Great Being ! what thou art 

Surpasses me to know : 
Yet sure am I, that known to thee 

Are all thy works below. 

Thy creature here before thee stands 

All wretched and distrest ; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey thy high behest. 

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath I 
free my weary eyes from tears. 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be. 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then man my soul with firm resolves. 

To bear and not repine. 



THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF 
THE NINETIETH PSALM. 

O Thou, the first, the greatest Friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever beeu 

Their stay and dwelling place ! 

Before the mountains heaved their heads 

Beneath thy forming hand. 
Before this pond'rous globe itself 

Arose at thy command ; 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Hon gaT'st the word ; Thy 

Is to erisience brousrht : 
Again thou snj'st, * Ye sons of men. 

Return ve liito nought I' 

Thnn lay est them, wit* Jl their cares. 

In everlasting sleep j 
As with a flood thou tak'st them cff 

With overwhelming sweep. 

ITiey flourish like the morning flow'r, 

In beauty's pride arraj'd ; 
But long ere night, cut down, it lies 

All wither'd and decay'd. 



Such is the fate orsimple^ard, 
On life's rough oceau luckless sUrr'd, 
UoskilXoi be to note the cud. ~ 
oi pruaem lore. 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard 
And whelm him o'er I 

Snch fate to snffering worth is given. 
Who long with wanes and woes has striren, 
Bv human pride or cunning driren 

To mis 'rj's brink. 
Till •vnrench'd of every stay Lui ii<ra»»u. 

He, ruiii'd, sink I 

ven then who mourn 'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate i? thine— no distant datei 
Stern Ruin's plongh-share drives, elate. 

Full on thy bloom. 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weighty 

Shall be thy doom 1 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 



For I maun crush r inang the stoare 
Thy slender stem ; 

To spare thee now is past my pow'r. 
Thou bonoie gem. 

Alas I it's no thv neeboar sweet, 
The bonny Lark, companion meet! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet 

Wi' spreckl'd breast. 
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north. 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Y'et cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm. 
Scarce reared above the parent earth 
Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow 'rs onr gardens yield, 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield, 
But thou beneath the random bield 

0' clod or stane. 
Adorns the histie stibble field. 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Tliy Fiiawy bosom sun-ward spread, 
Tbou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed. 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! 
By love 's simplicity betray 'd. 

And guileless trust, 
Tni she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dusu 



All hail ! inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruction breathing word, , 

The mightiest empires fall I 
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train. 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
AVith stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; \ 

For one has cut my dearest tie. 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then low'ring and pouring. 

The storm no more I dread ; 
Tho' thick'ning and black'ningy 
Round my devoted bead. 

XL 

And thou grim power, by life abhorr'd, 
While life'a pleasure can aflord, 
Oh ! hear a wretch's prayer : 
No more I shrink appall 'd, afraid t 
[ court, I beg thy friendly aid, 

To close this scene of care I 
W hen shall my soul, in silent peace» 

Resign life's joyless day ; 
My weary heart its throbbings cease. 
Cold mould'ring in the clay ; 
No fear more, no tear more. 
To stain my lifeless face ; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
>Viihin thy cold embrace! ^ 



Again the silent wheels of time. 
Their annual ronnd have driven. 

And you, tho' scarce in maiden primci 
Are so much nearer Heaven. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail ; 
[ send vou more than India boasU 

In Edwin's simple tale. 



BURN 3. —POEMS. 



Oar ser with guile and feithless love 
Is charged, perhaps, too true ; 

But may, dear maid, each lover prove 
Aa Edwia still to joa t 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 
MAY ,1786 

I. 

I lang hae tboagfat, my youthfu' friend, 
A something to have sent you, 

Tho' it should serve nae other end 
Than just a kind memento ; 

But how the subject theme may gang, 
I Let time and chance determine ; 

PerJI^ps it may turn out a sang, 
Perhaps turu out a sermon. 

IL 

Ye'U fry the warld soon, my lad. 

And, Andrew dear, believe nie. 
Ye '11 find mankind an unco squad, 

And muckle they may grieve je ; 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

E'en when your end's attained; 
An a' your views may come to nought. 

Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 

IIL 

I'll no say, men are villains a* ; 

The real, harden'd wicked, 
VVha hae nae check but human law, 

Are to a few restricked : 
But och, mankind are unco weak. 

An' little to be trusted; 
If self the wavering balance shake, 

It's rarely right adjusted. 

IV. 

Yet they whafa' in fortune's strife. 

Their fale we should na censure. 
For still the important end of lite 

They equally may answer. 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho'poortith hourly stare him ; 
A man may tak a. neebor's part. 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 



Aje free afFhan' your story tell, 

When wi' a bosom crouy ; 
But still keep something toyoursel* 

Ve scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yoursel* as weel's je caa 

trae critical dissection ; 
Itiit keek thro' every other man, 

Wi' sfaarpeu'd sly inspection. 

VL 

The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love. 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should diwdge it: 
I wave the quantum o' the siu, 

Tlie hazard of concealing ; 
But och ! it hardens a' within, ^ 

Anu petrifies the feeling ! ..-7** 

VII. 
To catcb dame Forluoe'e golden stnilei 
" ' » wait HDou bet > 



And gather gear by every wile, 
That 8 jastified by honoOJ j 

Not for to hide U in a hed^. 
Nor for a train-attendant ; 

But for the glorious prhnl^e 
Of being independent. 

vm. 

The fear o* hell's a hangman's whip. 
To hand the wretch in order ; 

But where ye feel your honour grip. 
Let that aye be your border ; 

Its slightest touches, instant pause- 
Debar a' side pretences ; 

And resolutely keep its law 
Uncaring consequences. 

IX. 

The great Creator to revere, 

Must sure become the creature ; 
But still the preaching cant forbear. 

And ev'n the rigid feature : 
'^et ne'er with wits profane to range. 

Be complaisance extended ; 
Ail Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity oflended I 



When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded ! 
Or, if she gie a random sting. 

It may be little minded : 
But when on life we're tempest driven 

A conscience but a canker — 
A correspondence tix'd wi' Heaven, 

Is sure a noble anchor. 

XL 

Adieu, dear amiable jouth ! 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting 
May prudence, fortitude, aud truth. 

Erect your brow undauntiug 1 
In ploughman phrase, » God send you Bpeed,* 

Still vlaily to grow wiser ; 
And may you better reck the rede. 

Than ever did th' adviser ! 



ON A SCOTCH BARD 

GONE TO THE tVEST INDIES- 

A' ye wba live by soups o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
A' ye wha live and never thins. 

Come mourn wi* me ! 
Our billie's gi'en us a' a jink. 

An' owre the sea. 

Lament him, a' ye ranlin' core, 
Wha dearly like a random splore, 
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar. 

In social key ; 
For now he's ta'eu anither shore. 

An' owre the sea. 

The bonnie lassies weel may miss him* 
And in their dear petitions place him : 
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him| 

Wi' tearfu'e»e; 
For we«l I wat they "U sairly miss'him, 
I That's owre tixe 8««u 



soo 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



O Fortnne, they hae room to prnmble ! 
Hadst thou ta'en aft' some drowsv bummel, 
Wha can do nonghi but fjke an' fumble, 

'Twad been iiae plea ; 
But he was gleg as ony wumble. 

That's owre the sea. 



Anid, 



e Rjle may weeper 



'Twill mak' her poor auld heart, I fear. 
In flinders flee; 

He was her laureate moaie a year. 

That's owre the sea. 

He saw misfirtune's canld nore-wast 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jillet brak' his heart at last, 

111 may she be I 
So, took a birth afore the mast, 

Aa' owre the sea. 

To tremble under Fortune's cummock, 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' druramock, 
Wi' his proud independent stomach 

Could ill agree ; 
So row't his hurdies in a hammock, 

An ' owre the sea. 

He ne'er was gi'en to great misguiding. 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in : 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding ; 

He dealt it free : 
ITie muse was a' that he took pride in. 

That's owre the sea. 



Jamaica l 
An* hap hin 
Ye'U hud hi 



3 weel. 



dainty chiel, 
and fu'o' glee: 
He wadna wrang'd the rera dell. 

That's owre the sea. 

Fareweel, ray rhyme-composing billje t 
Yowr nutive soil was right ill-willie ; 
But may ye flourish like a lily. 

Now bonnUie ; 
111 toast je in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea. 



TO A haggis: ' 

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Oreat chieftain o' the puddin-race, 
Aboor them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm j 
VTeel are ye wordy of a. grace 

The groaning trencher there ye fill. 
Your hurdies like a distant hill. 
Your pin wad hela to mend a mill 

TVhile thro' your pores the dews disti 
Like amber bead. 

His knife see rustic labour dight, 
An* cut you up wi' ready slight, 
Trenching vour gushing entrails bright. 

Like onie ditch ; 
And ihenj C what a glorious sight, . 

Warm-ieekiu, rich I 



Then horn for horn they stretch an' si 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drire, 
Till a* their weel-swall'd kjtes belyv* 
Are bent like drums : 
Then aold guidman, maist like to 
Bethaukit hums 

Is there that o'er his French ragout 
Or olio that w ad staw a sow. 
Or fricassee wad mak her spew, 

Wi' perfect sconner. 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' Tiew, 
On sic a dinner ? 






Poor deril 
As feckless a 
His spindle-s 



see hi 



m owre his trasb, 
ber'drash, 
guid whip lashf 



I 



But mark the rustic, haggis-fed. 
The trembling earth resounds his treai. 
Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll make it whissle ; 
An' leg?, an' arms, an' heads will sued. 

Like taps o' thrissle. 

Ye Pow*rs wha mak mankind your ca. 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking war* 

That jaups in luggies j 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 

Gie her a Haggis t 



A DEDICATION. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ 

Expect na. Sir, in this narration, 
A fleechin, fleth*rin dedication. 
To rooze you up, an' ca' jou guid, 
An' sprung o' great an' noble'bluid. 
Because ye're surnamed like his grace. 
Perhaps related to the race ; 
Then when I'm tired — and sae are ye, 
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie. 
Set up a "face, how I stop short. 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do— maun do. Sir, wi* them wha 
Maun please ibe great folk for a wamefu*; 
For me ! sae laigh I needna bow. 
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough ; 
And when 1 dinna Toke a nai?. 
Then, Lord be thankit, I can^beg ; 
Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatt'rin'. 
It's just sic poet an' sic patron. 

The Poet, some guid angel help him» 
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him j / 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet, 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron, (Sir, ye man forgie me, 
I winna lie, come what will o' me) 
On ev'ry hand it will allowed bj, 
He's just — nae better than he should b«k 



BURNS — POEMS. 



Whirt'e DO bb aiQ he vrinna tuk it : 
What anse he says be wimia break it ; 
Onght he can lend he'll no refuse'!, 
Till aft his goodness is abased ; 
And rascals wbyles that do hiin wrang, 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang ; 
As master, landlord, husband, father. 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that j 
Kae godlj symptom ye can ca' that ; 
It's naethiog but a milder feature, 
Of our poor, siofu', corrupt nature 
Y'e'll get the best o' moral works, 
Wang black Gentoos and pagan 'lurks. 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 
That he's the poor man's friead in need. 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
It's no thro' terror of damnation; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, thou deadly bane. 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust ii 
la moral mercy, truth, and justice! 

No^stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro a wianock frae a whore. 
But point the rake that laks the door : 
Be to the poor like ooie whunstane, 
And baud their noses to the gruustane ; 
Ply every art o' legal thieving ; 
No matter, stick to sound believing. 

Learn three mile pray'rs, an' half-mile 

Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang, wry face= j 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthan'd groan, 
And damn a' parties but your own ; 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, stannch belierer. 

O ye wha leave the springs of Calvin, 
For gnmlie dubs of your ain delvin 1 
N t sons of heresy and error, 
Ye'U some day squeel in quaking terror i 
^V hen Vengeance draws the sword in wrali, , 
And in the tire throws the sheath ; 
When Ruin with bis sweeping besom, 
J ust frets till Heav'n commission gies him ; 
While o'er the harp pale Misery moans. 
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones. 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! 

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, 
I maist forgat my dedication ; 
But when divinity comes cross me, 
Wy readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour. 
But 1 maturely thought it proper, 
"When a' my works I did review. 
To dedicate'them. Sir, to you : 
Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
I thought them something like joursel'. 

Then patronise them wi* your favour, 
And your petitioner shall ever— 
1 bad amaisl said ever pray. 
But that's a word I need na say t 
For prayio' 1 hae little skill o't ; 
I'm baiiii dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't ; 



"May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark. 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 

May K *s far honour'd name 

Lang beet his hymeneal flame, 

Till H s at least a dizen. 

Are frae her nuptial labours risen : ' 
Five bonnie lasses round their table. 
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able 
To serve their king and country weel. 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, with mutual rajs. 
Shine on the evening o' his days : 
Till his wee cnrlie John's ier-oe. 
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow. 
The last, sad, mournful tites bestow 1 " 

I will not mind a lang conclusion, 
Wi' complimentary efiusion ; 
But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are bless 'd with Fonnne's smiles and twnmnf 
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent. 
Your much indebted humble servant. 

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent!) 
That iroD-hearted carl, W"ant,* 
Attended in his grim advances. 
By sad mistakes, and black mischances. 
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures flj lu»| 
Make you as poor a dog as I am. 
Your humble servant then no more ; 
For who would humbly serve the poor! 
But by a poor man's hopes in Heaven 1 
While recollection's power is given. 
If, in the vale of humble life. 
The victim sad of fortune's strife, 
I, thro' the tender gushing tear. 
Should recognize my master dear. 
If friendless low we meet together. 
Then, Sir, your hand — my friend and brotbt* 



TO A LOUSE, 



Ha ! whare ye gann, ye crowlin' ferlie ? 
Your impudence protects you sairlj : 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 

Owrs gauze and lace ; 
Tho* faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner. 
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner. 
How dare you set vour fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner. 

On some poor bodj. 

Swith, in some beggat»8 hafFet squattle ; 
There ye maj creep, and sprawl, and sprattW 
Wi' ither kindred, jumpin' cattle, 

III shoals and nations : 
Whare hora nor bane ne'er dare unsettls 

Your thick plantalioBfc , 



SOS 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRAuT. 



Now baud you there, ye're out o* wgtit. 
Below the fatt'rils, siiug aa' tight: 
Na, faith je jet ! je'il no be right 

Till ye've got oii it, 
The very tapmost tow 'ring height 

O' Miss's bonnet. 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your note out 
As plump and grey as ouie grozet ; 

for some rank, mercurial rozet. 

Or fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gi'e you sic a hearty dose o't, 

Wad dreab your droddum ! 

1 wad na been surprised to spy 
You ou an auld wiie s llaimeii toy ; 
Or aiblius some bit duddie boy, 

Oa's wyliecoat ; 
But Miss's fine Lunardie ; tie, 

ilow dare ye du'tl 

O Jenny, dinna toss your head. 
An' set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye little ken what curbed speed 

The blastie's makin', 
Thae winks and linger ends, I dread, 

Are notice takin' ! 

O wad some power the giftie gie ns. 

To see oursels as others see us ! 

It wad frae mome a blunder free us. 

And foolish notion : 
What airs In cress au' gait wad lea'e us, 

Andev'u Devotion! 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 



Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and towers, 
Where once, beneath a monarch's feet. 

Sat legislation's sovereign powers I 
From marking wildly scatter'd flowers. 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray 'd, 
And singing, lone, the lingering hours, 

I shelter in thy honotir'd shade. 

II. 
Here wealth still swells the golden tide. 

As busy trade his labours plies ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here justice, from her native skies. 

High wields her balance and her rod ; 
Ihere learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Useks science in her coy aoode. 

IlL 
Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarged, theit liberal mind. 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail. 

Or modest merit's sileat claim ; 
And never may their sources tail '. 

And never envy blot their name. 

IV. 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn I 
Gay as the gilded summer sky, 

Bweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 
Dear as the raptured thrill of joy ! 



TlzT Burnet strikes th' adoring eye. 
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine 

I see the Sire of love on high. 
And own his work indeed divineS 



There, watching high the least alarms, 

'i'hy rough rude fortress gleams afar: 
Like some bold veteran gre> in arms. 

And mark'd with many a seamy scan 
The pond'rous wall and massy bai 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock : 
Have oft withstood assailing war. 

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock, 

VL 
With awe-struck thought and piiying tears, 

1 vif w ihal noble, stately dome, 
■\Vliere hcuiia's kmsrs of other years, 

Kauieu heroes, had their royal home. 
Alas ! how changed the times to come I 

Iheir royal name low in the dust ; 
Their hapless race wild wand'ring roamt 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'l was just '. 

VII. 

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 
Whose ancestors in days of yore. 

Thro' hostile ranks and ruined gaps 
Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 

Haply my sires have left their she 
And faced grim danger's loudest roar. 
Bold following where your fathers led. 

VIII. 
Edina 1 Scotia's darling seal ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once, beneath a monarch's feet. 

Sat legislation's sopereign powers ! 
From marking wildly scatter'd flowers,. 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray 'd. 
And singing, lone, the lingering hoiurs, 

I shelter'd in thy honour'd shade. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BABD,, APRIL 1st, 1 7S6 

While briers an' woodbines budding green, 
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en. 
An' morning poussie whiddia seen. 

Inspire my muse. 
This freedom in an unknown friea'y 

I pray excuse. 

On fasten-een we had a rockin*. 
To ca' the crack, and weave our stockin* ; 
A.nd there was muckle fun and jokin'. 
Ye need na doubt : 
At length we had a hearty yokiu' 
At sang about. 

There was ae sang amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleased me best. 
That some kind husband had address 'd' 

To some sweet wife: 
It thirrd the heart-strings thro' the brsastj 

A' to the life. 



BURNS.— POEMS. 



I've scarce heard ought descfibed sae weel, 
"What gen'rons, manly bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, * Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark ?' 
They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About Muirkirk. 

It pat me fidgia-fain to hear't. 
And sae aboat him there 1 spiert, 
Ihen a' that keu't him, round declared 

He had ingine, 
That nane excell'd it, few cam near'ti 



Itv 



.e tine. 



That set him to a pint of ale. 
An' either douce or merry tale, 
Or rhymes aa' sangs he'd made himsel'. 

Or witty catches, 
'Tweea luTerness and Teviotdale, 

He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, 
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh au' graith. 
Or die a cadger pownie's death, 

At some dyke back, 
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the erambo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude an' rough. 
Yet crooning to a body's sel' 

Does weel eneugh. 

I am nae poet, in a sense, 
But just a rhymer, like, by chance. 
An' hae to learning nae pretence. 

Yet, what the matter ? 
Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 
I jingle at her. 

Your critic folk may cock their nose. 
And say, • How can you e'er propose. 
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose. 

But, by your leaves, ray learned foes. 
Ye 're maybe wrang. 

What's a' your jargon o'"your schools. 
Your Latin names tor horns an' stools ? 
If honest nature made yon fools, 

What sairs your grammars t 
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools. 
Or knappin-hammers. 

A set o' dull conceited hashes. 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses. 

Plain truth to speak; 
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus 
By dint o' Greek 1 

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire ! 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then, tho' I drudge thro' dub an" mire 

At pleugh or cart, 
Mj muse, though hamely in attire. 

Way touch the heart. 

O for a spunk o' Allan's glee. 
Or Fergnson's, the bauld and slee. 
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, 
If I cau hit it 1 



Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few. 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist. 
But gif ye want ae friend that 's true, 

I'm on your list. 

I winna blaw about mysel ; 
As ill 1 like my fauhs to teU ; 
But friends, and folk that wish me well, 

They sometimes roose mej 
Tho* I maun own, as monie still 
As far abuse me. 

There's ae -wee faut they whyles lay to me, 
I like the lasses — Guid forgie me 1 
For monie a plack they wheedle frae me 

At dnnce or fair : 
May be some ither thing they gie me 

They weel can spare. 



Bnt Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there ; 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care. 

If we forgather. 
An' hae a swap o' rhyming ware 

Wi' ane anither. 

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clattel 
An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water; 
Syue we'll sit down an' tak our whitter, 

To cheer our heart ; 
An, faith, we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 



Awa, ye selfish warly race, 
Wha think tkat bavins, sense, an' grace, 
Ev'n love and friendship shotild give place 

To catch the plack ! 
I dinna like to see your face. 

Nor hear your crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms. 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms* 
Who hold your being on the terms, 

* Each aid the others. 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms. 

My friends, my brothers I* 

But, to conclude my lang epistle. 
As ray auld pen's worn to the grissle: 
Twa lines Irae you wad gar me fissle. 

Who am most fervent. 
While I can either sing, or whissle. 

You: friend and serracU 



TO THE SAME. 

APRii- 21, 1785. 

While new ca'd kye rout at the stake, 
powuiesreek in pleugh or brake, 
3 hour on e'enin's edge I take. 

To own I'm debtor 
To honest-heaited auld LaprafK, 

For his kind lHUtS» , 



DIAMOITU CABINET LIBRARY. 



Forjesket sair with weary legs, 
RattliQ* the corn out-owre the rigs. 
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 

Their ten hours • bite, 
Jilj awkwart mnse sair pleads and begs, 

I TFOuld na write. 

The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizz!e> 
She's saft at best, and something lazy, 
<^uo* she, ♦ Ye ken ye've been sae busy 

This month an' majr, 
That trouth my head is grown quite dizzie. 

An' something sair. ' 

Her dowff excuses pat me mad ; 
* Conscience,' says I, ' ye thovrless jad I 
I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud. 



Wha thinks himself nae sheep-shank bane» 
But lordly stalks. 

While caps an* bonnets aff are taen 
As by be walks : 

* O Thou wha gies us each gnid gift ! 
Gie me o' wit and sense a lift. 
Then turn me if Thou please adrift 

Thro' Scotland v 
Wi' cits nor lairds I would not shift. 

In a' their pride ! ' 

Were this the charter of our state, 
' On pain o' hell be rich and great,' 
Damnation then would be our fate. 

Beyond remead ; 
But, thanks to Heaven ! that's no the gato 

We learn our creed. 



vide; 



♦ Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts, 

In terms sae friendly, 
Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts. 

An' thank him kindly ! ' 

Sae I got paper in a blink, 
All' down gaed stumpie in the ink: 
Quoth I, * Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it; 
An' if ye winna mak* it clink. 

By Jove, I'll prose it ! ' 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither. 
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither. 

Let time mak proof! 
But I shall scribble down some blether 
Just clean aflf loaf. 



Come, kittle up your moorland harp 

Wi' gleesome touch ! 
Ne'er mind how Fortune waft and warp ; 

She's but a bitch- 
She's gien me monie a jirt and fleg. 
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; 
But, by the L -d, tho' I should beg, 

Wi' lyart pow, 
I'll laugh, aa* sing, an' shake my leg. 

As lang 's I do w 1 

Now comes the sax and twentieth simmer, 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, 
Still persecuted by the limmer, 

Frae year to year ; 
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 

I, Rob, am here. 

Do ye envy the city Gent, 
Behint a kist to lie and sklent, 
Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. 

And mnckle wame, 
lu some bit brugh to represent 

A Bailie's name ? 



For thus the royal mandate ran. 

When first the human race began, 

' The social, friendly, honest mar 

Whate'er he be, 

Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan. 

An' none but he I • 

O mandate glorious and divine ! 
The followers o' the ragged Nine, 
Poor glorious devils ! yet may shin* 

In glorious light. 
While sordid sons of Mammon's line 

Are dark as night. 

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an 

rheir worthless nievefu' o' a soul 
Way in some future carcase howl 

The forest's fright ; 
Grin some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise. 
To reach their native, kindred skies, 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys. 

Still closer knit in friendship's ties. 
Each passing year. 



OCHILTREE. 

Mai/, 1785b 
I gat your letter, winsome Willie : 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; 
Tho' I maun say 't I wad be silly. 



But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to thiuk ye hinted 
Ironic satire sidelins sklented 

On my poor mnsie ; 
Tho' in sic phraisin ' terms ye've penn'd it, 
I scarce excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in a creel. 
Should I but dare a hope to speel, 
Wi' Allan or wi' Ollbertfield, 

The braes of fame. 



BURNS — POEMS. 



(O Fergnsson ! thy glorious part« 
III suited law 'a dry musty arts. 
My curse upon your whunstane heartSt 

Ye E'nbrugh Gentry t 
The tithe o» what ye waste at cartes, 

Wad stow'dhis pantry !) 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 
Or lasses gie my heart a screed. 
As whyles they're like to be my dead, 

(O sad disease!) 
I kittle up my rustic reed ; 

It gies me ease. 

Anld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, 
She's gotten poets o» her ain, 
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes all resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 

Nae poet thought her worth his while. 
To set her name in measured style ; 
She lay like some unkenned of isle 

Beside New-Holland, 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan. 

Ramsay an' famous Fergussou 
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow an' Tweed to monie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
While Irwin* Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, 

Nae body sings. 

Th' missus, Tiber, Thames, an* Seine, 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line ! 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine. 

An' cock your crest. 
We'll gar our streams and buvnies shine 
Up wi' the best. 

We'll sing anld Coila's plains an' fells, 
Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells. 
Her banks an' braes, her dens an dells. 

Where glorious Wallace 
Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

Frae southern billies. 

At Wallace* name what Scottish blood 

But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 

Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace ' side. 

Still pressing onward, red wat-shod. 

Or glorious died. 

O sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods. 
When lintwhites chant among the buds. 
An' jinking hares, in amorous whids. 

Their loves enjoy. 
While thro' the braes the cushat crood» 

With wailfu' cry I 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
When winds rave thro' the naked tree. 
Or frost on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary grey ; 
Ol blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 
Dark'ning the day ! 



O Nature ! a* (by shows an orns 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 
AYbether the summer Jiindly warmj 

Wi' life an' light. 
Or winter howls in gusty storms. 

The lang, dark night I 

The Muse, nae poet ever fand her. 

Till by bimsel he learn 'd to wander, 

Adown some trotting burn's meander 

An' no think lang, 

sweet, to stray, an' pensive ponder 

A heartfelt sang ! 

The warly race may drudge and drive, 
Hog-shouther, jiindie, stretch, an' strive. 
Let me fair Nature's face descrive. 

And I, wi' pleasure. 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 

Bum o'er their treasure. 

Fareweel, * my rhyme-composing brither I ' 
We've-been owre lang unkenn'd to itber. 
Now let us lay our heads thegither. 

In love fraternal ; 
May Envy wallop in a tether. 

Black fiend infernal ! 

While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes 
While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies ; 
While terra firma on her axis 

Diurnal turns. 
Count on a friend, in faith aud praclicOi 
In Robert Burns. 

POSTSCRIPT. , 

My memory's no worth a preen ; 

1 had amaist forgotten clean. 

Ye bade me write you what they mean 
By this new-light.* 

'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been 
Waist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but callans 
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents. 
They took nae pains their speech to balance* 

Or rules to gie. 
But spak their thoughts in plain braid lallans. 

Like you or me. 

In thae auld times, they thought the raooD^ 
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon. 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon, 

Gaed past their viewing. 
An' shortly after she was done. 

They gat a new ane. 

This past for certain, undisputed ; 

It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it. 

Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it. 

An' ca'd it wrang ; 

An' muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud and lang. 

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the bnik. 
Wad threap auld folk the thing mistenk ; 
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a nenk. 
An* out o' sight. 



* See Note p. 175. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



This was deny'd, it was afl&nn'd ; 
The herds and hissels were alarm 'd ; 
The rev'rend grey-beards rav'd an' storm'd, 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform 'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks ; 
An' monie a fallow ^at his licks, 

AVi' hearty crunt ; 
An' some to learn them for their tricks» 

Were hang'd an' brunt. 

This game was play'd in monie lands. 
An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands, 
That faith the youngsters took the sands 

Wi* nimble shanks. 
Till lairds forbade, by strict commands} 

Sic bliiidy pranks. 

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, 
Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe. 
Till now amaist on every knowe, 

Ye'll lindane plac'd; 
An' some, their new-light fair avow, 

Just quite barefac'd. 

Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin^j 
Their zealous herds are vex'd an'sweatia' j 
Wysel*, I've even seen them greetin' 

Wi' girnin' spite, 
To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on 

By word an' write. 

But shortly they will cowe the louns t 
Some auld-light herds in neebor towns 
Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons. 

To tak' a flight, 
An* stay a month amang the moons 
An* see them right. 

Guid observation they will gi'e them • 
Au' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, 
The hindmost shaird, they'U fetch it wi' them, 

Just i' their pouch, 
Aq* when the new-light billies see them, 

I think they'll crouch ! 

Sae, ye observe that a this clatter 
Is naething but a ' moonshine matter:' 
But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope, we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic bmlzie. 



EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE. 

ENCLOSING SOilB POBMS. 

O Roaghf rnde, ready-witted Rankine, 
The wale o' cocks for fun and drinking. 
There's moaie godly folks are thiukin'. 

Yours dreams * an ' tricks 



* A oo^ain bamoroos dream of his waa iben 
maklDg a aoise ia the coaotrj-sids. 



W2L send yoUf Korah-like, a-sinkin', 

Straight to anld Nick's. 

Ye Ua'e sae monie cracks an' cants. 
And la your wicked, drucken rants* 
Ye mak' a devil o' the saunts. 

An' fill them fon; 
And then their failings, flaws, an wants* 

Are a' seen thro'. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ; 
That holy robe, O dinna tear it I 
Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it» " 

The lads in black • 
But your curst wit, w hen it comes near it. 

Rives 't aft' their back. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye 're skaithin^i 
It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithiog 
O' saunts ; tak that, ye lea e them naething 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony anregenerate heathen 

Like you or L 

I've sent yon here some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargain'd for an' mair ; 
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon sang,! ye'll sen't wi' cannie care, 

And no neglect. 

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! 
My muse dow scarcely spread her wiugl 
I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring, 

An'danc'dmy tUll 
I'd better gaen and sair'd the king 

At Bunker's HiU. 

'Twas ae night lately in my fun 
I gaed a roving wi' the gun. 
An' brought a paitrick to the gmu> 

A bonnie hen. 
An', as the twilight was begun. 

Thought nane wad ken. 

The poor wee thing was little hnrt j 
I straikit it a wee for sport. 
Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for'tj 

But, deil ma care ! 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

The hale aff'air. 

Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a aotef 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
I was suspected for the plot ; 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
So gat the whissle o' my groat. 

An' pay't the fee. 

But, by my gnn, 
An' by my pouther 
An* by my hen, an uj 
I vow 
The game shall pay o'l 



il 



guns the wals, 
' my hail, 
r her tail, 

, loor an' dale, 

''or this, niest year. 

As soon's the clockin* time is by. 
An' the wee pouts begun to cry. 
Lord, I'se hae eportin* by an' by. 

For my gowd guinea i 



t Ji fong b« bad proniKed (he AoUior. 



BURNS— POEMS. 



Trowth, they had meikle for to blame ! 
'Twas neither broken wing nor limb. 
But twa-three drups about the waniet 

Scarce thro the feathers ; 
Ail' baith a yellow George to claim, 

Aa' thole their blethers t 

It pits me aye as mad's a hare ; 
So I caD rhyme nor write nae mair ; 
fiut pennyworths again is fair^ 

When time's expedient : 
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 

Your most obedient. 



JOHN BARLEYCORN,* 



A BALLAD. 



There were three kings into the east» 
Three kings both great and high, 

An' they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 



They took a plough and ploogh'd him down. 

Put clods upon his head. 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead. 

III. 

But the cheerfu' spring came kindly on. 

And bhow'rs began to fail ; 
John Barle^ycorn got up again, 

Ajid sore surprised them all. 

IV. 

The sultry suns of summer came. 

And he grew thick and strong. 
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, 

That no one should him wrong. 



The sober autumn enter'd mild, 
When he grew wan and pale ; 

His bending joints and drooping head 
Show'd he began to fail. 

VI. 

His colour sicken'd more and more. 

He faded into age ; 
And then bis enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 

VIL 

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp. 

And cut him by the knee ; 
Then tied him fast upon a cart. 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

YIII. 

They laid him down upon his back. 
And cudgel'd him full sore ; 

They hung him up before the storm, 
And tura'd him o'er and o'er. 



They filled op a darksome pit 
With water to the brim ; 

They heaved in John BaTl^a>ni, 
There let liim sink or ewim. 



ITiey laid him out upon the floor. 
To work him farther woe. 

And still as signs of life appear'd. 
They toss'd him to and fro. 



They wasted, o'er a scorching flamOj 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller us'd him warst of ^11, 

For he crush'd him between two atonsg. 

XIL 

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blocxly 
And dj-unk it round and round ; 

And still the more and more they drank> 
Their joy did more abound. 

XIIL 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold. 

Of noble enterprise. 
For If you do bnt taste his blood, 

'Twill make yoor courage rise. 

XIV. 

'Twill make a man forget his woe ; 

'Twill heighten all his joy : 
'Twill make the widow'b heart to sing) 

Tho' the tear were in her eye, 

XV. 

Then let us toast John Barleycoiny 

Each man a glass in hand; 
And may his great posterity 

Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 



A FBAGMSNT. 

Tune.—** Gilliorankie." 



When Guildford good our pHot stood, 
And did our helm thraw, man, 

Ae night, at tea, began a plea. 
Within America, man : 

Then up they gat the maskin-pat. 
And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
n' did nae less, in full congress. 
Than quite refuse our law, man. 

II. 

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes ; 

I wat he was na slaw, mant 
Down Lowrie's burn he took a tnm, 

And Carleton did ca', man: 
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, 

Montgomery-like did fa*, maa 5 
Wi' sword in hand, before hia band, 

Amang his enemies a', man. 

in. 

Poor Tommy Gage, within a cage* 
Was kept at Boston ha', main 

Till Willie Howe took o'er ttte Juicwe 
For Philadelphia, man • 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



' whip, 



>Vi* sword an' gun he thought a sin 
Guid Christian blood to draw, man; 

But at New-York, wi' knife and fork, 
Sir>Ioia be hacked sma', man. 

IV. 

Bttrgoyne gaed up, like spur a 

TUl Fraser brave did fa', man ; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day. 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 
Cornwallis fought as lang's he doughf. 

An' did the buckskins claw, man ; 
But Clinton 's glaive frae rust to save, 

Ue hang it to the wa', man. 

V. 

Then Montague, an' Guildford too, 

Began to fear a' fa', man ; 
And Saekville doure, wha stood the stoure, 

The German chief to thraw, man : 
Poor Paddy Burke, like onie Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a', man ; 
An' Charlie Fox threw by the box. 

An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 

VI, 

Then Rockingham took up the game ; 

Till death did on him ca', man ; 
When Sheibunie meek held up his cheek, 

Conform to gospel law, man, 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise» 

They did his measures thraw, man, 
For North and Fox united stocks. 

And bore him to the wa', man. 

VII. 

Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes, 

He swept the stakes awa', man. 
Till the diamond's ace of Indian race. 

Led him a s^ir faux pas, man : 
The Saion lads, wi' loud placads. 

On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; 
And Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, 

••Up, Willie, waur thea' a', man I" 

VIIL 

Behind the throne then Grenville's gone, 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
While slee Dundas arous'd the class 

Be-north the Roman wa', man : 
An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, 

(Inspired bardies saw, man) 
Wi' kindling eyes, crj'd, •« Willie, rise I 

Would 1 ha'e feax'd them a', man ?" 

IX. 

But word an' blow. North, Fox, and Co. 

Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man. 
Till Suthrons raise, and coost their claise 

Behind him in a raw, man ; 
An' Caledon threw by the drone, 

An' did her whittle draw, man; 
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt and blood 

Tc make it guid in law, man. 



SONG. 

Tune—** Corn Rigs are Bonnie.' 



Beneath the moon's unclouded g 

I held awa to Annie : 
The time flew by wi' teutless heed. 

Till tween the late and early, 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed. 

To see me tliro' the barley. 



IL 



still* 



The sky was lloe, the 

The moon was shining clearly ; 
I set her down, wi' right good will» 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 
I kent her heart was a' my ain ; 

I lov'd her most sincerely ; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

in. 

I lock'd her in my fond embrace ! 

tier heart was beating rarely ; 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
But by (he moon and stars so bright. 

That shone lliat hour so clearly I 
She aye shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

IV. 

I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear ; 

I hae been merry drinkin' ; 
I hae been joy fu' gath rin gear t 

I hae been happy thinkin' : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubled fairly. 
That happy night was worth them a', 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 



■igs an' barley rigs, 
corn rigs are bonnie ; 
'er forget that happy night* 
ing the rigs w»' Annie. 



COMPOSED IN AUGUST. 

Tune—" I had a Horse, I had nae malr. 



Now westlin' winds and slaught'ring guns» 
Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 

The moorcock springs, on whirring winga, 
Amang the blooming heather : 

Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain. 
Delights the weary farmer ! 

And the moon shines bright, whea I rore ai 
ight 



To muse upon my charmer. 



The partridge loves the fruitful fells : 

The plover loves the mountains : 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 

The soaring hern the fountains t 
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves 

The path of man to shun it ; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrmh, 

The ipreading thorn the linnet. 



BURNS POEMS. 



Tlius ev'ry kind iheu pleasure tind. 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social join, and leagues combine j 

Some solitary wander ; 
Avauiit, away 1 the cruel sway, 

Tlif sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, 
'1 lie llutt'ring, gory pinion 1 

IV. 

But Peggy dear, the^v'ning's clear. 

Thick Hies the skimming swallow j 
The sky is blue, the fields ni view. 

All fading-green and yellow : 
Come let us stray our gladsome way. 

And view the charms of nature : 
Tile rustlin corn, the fruited thorn. 

And ev 'ry happy creature. 



We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk. 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
Not vernal show'rs to budding llow'rs, 

Not autumn to the farmer. 
So dear can be as thou to me. 

My fair, tuy lovely channer 



SONG. 
« My Nannie, 0. " 



Behind jon hills where Stinchar flows, 
.Maiig moors an' mosses many, O, 

The wintry sun the day has closed, 
And I'll awa to Nannie, O. 



riio wcstlan wind blaws loud an' shill ; 

'i i;e night's baith mirk and rainy, O ; 
lUi! I'll get my plaid an' out I'll steal, 

All' owre the bills to Nannie, O. 

III. 

My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young : 
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O ; 

May ill beta' the flatt'ring tongue 
'i iiat wad beguile my Nannie, O. 

IV. 

Her face is fair, her heart is true, 
As spotless as she's bonnie, O : 

The opening gowan, wet wi' dew, 
Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 



A country lad is ray degree. 

An' few there be that ken me, ; 

Bnf what care I how few they be, 
I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O. 



My riches a' 's my penny- fee. 
An' 1 maun guide it cannie, O : 

I'ut warl's gear ne'er troubles niP, 
Wy thoujjhis are a' my Nannie, 0. 



VII. 

Our auld guidman delights to view 
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O ; 

But I'm as blithe that hands his pleugb 
An' hae nae care but Nannie, 0. 

VIII. 

Come weel, come wae, I care na by, 
I'll take what Hea^ren will sen' uie, O 

Nae ither care in life have I, 
But live, an' love my Nannie, 0. 



GREEN GROW THE RASHE 



A FRAGMENT. 



Green grow the rashes, O ! 

Green grow the rashes, O ! 
Tlie sweetest hours that e'er I spend. 

Are spent ainang the lasses, O I 



There's nought but care on ev'ry ban', 
In ev'ry hour that passes, O ; 

What signihes the life o' man. 
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. 

Green grow, &e. 

II. 

The warly race majr riches chasff* 
An 'riches still may fly them, O; 

An' though at last they catch them fast. 

Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, Ot, 

Green grow, &c 

IIL 

But gie me a canny hour at e'en. 
My arms about my dearie, O ; 

An' warly cares, an' warly men. 
Way a' gae tapsaitcerie, O. 

Green grow, &C. 

IV. 

For you so douse, ye sneer at this. 

Ye're nought but senseless asses, ; 
The wisest man the warld e'er saw, 

He dearly lo'ed the lasses, O ; 

Green grow, &c 

V. 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O ; 

Her prentice han' she tried on man. 
And then she madethe lasses, O. 

Green grow, &e. 



SONG. 
Tune—" Jockie's Grey Breeks.* 



Again rejoicing Nature sees 

Her robp assume its vernal hues. 

Her Ipafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All frebhly steep 'd in morning dew" 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



CH0RB8.* 
And maan I still on Menie f doat. 

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? 
For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a hawk. 

And it winna let a bouy be 1 

IL 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 
In vain to me the violets spring; 

In vain to me, in plen or ^haw. 
The maTib and the lintwhite sing. 

And maun I still, iic, 

III. 

The merry plonghboy cheers his team, 
W'i' joy the tentie seedsman slalk=j 

But life to Die's a weary dream, 
A dreaui of aue that never wauks. 

Aud mauu ) siiii, &c 

IV. 



And every tniug is blest but I. 



The shepherd steeks his fanlding slap. 
And owre the moorlands whistles bhill, 

\Vi' wild, unequal wauaeriug step 
i meet lum on the de»y hiiL 

And maun 1 still, &c. 

TL 

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark. 
Blithe waukens by the daisy's side, 

And mounis aud siugs ou liutt'ring wings, 
A wae-woru ghaist I hameward glide. 
Aud maun I biill. He. 

VIL 

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl. 
And raging bend the naked tree ; 

Th\ gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, 
When uaiure ail is sad like me ! 



CHORUS- 

And maan I still on rneuie aoat, 

And bear the scorn that's in her e e ? 

For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a_hawk. 
Ail* it winna let a body be. $ 



* This chorus is part of a song composed by 
a gentleman in Edinburgh, a particular friend 
of the author's. 

f Meuie is a common abbreviation of Mart- 
amne. 

* We cannot presume to alter any of the 
poems ot our bard, and more especially those 
printed under his own direction ; yet it is to be 
regretted that this chorus, which is not his 
own composition, should be attached to these 
tine stanzas, as it perpetually interrupts the 
Uufi of beaiimeDl wtutih ihey excite. 



« 



IS her ripening eoTR 



SONG. 
Tune—** RoaEn OasrlB.*^ 

L 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fa«t> 
Loud roars the wild inconstant bla^y 
You murky cloud is foul wi' rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
The hunter now has left the moor. 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure. 
While here I wander prest wi' care, 
Aloug the lonely banks of Ayr. 

XL 

The Autumn moi 

By early Winter'^ „ , 

Across her placid, azure sky. 
She sees the scowling tempest fly; 
Chill runs my biood to hear it rave, 
I iliiuk upon th>- stormy wave, 
AVhere many a danger I must dare. 
Far from the bouuie banks of Ayr. 

II [. 

Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
Tis not that fatal deadly shore : 
Tho' death iu every shape appear. 
The wTeiched have no more to feart 
,But round my heart (he ties are bound. 
That heart trnnspierc'd with many a woulld[| 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear 
To leave the bounie banks of Ayr. 

IV. 

Farewell, old Coila's hills an* dales. 
Her heathy moors aud winding vales; 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves» 
Pursuing p.^t unhappy loves ! 
Farewell, my fr:ends, farewell, my foes 1 
My peace with these, my love with tho^e.^ 
The bursting tears my heart declare. 
Farewell the bonuie banks of A^r ! 



TuTie — " Gllderoy." 



From thee, Eliza, I must go. 

And from my native shore : 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar : 
But boundless oceans roaring wid 

Between my love and me. 
They never, never can divide 

My heart aud soul from ibee. 

n. 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear. 

The maid that I adore I 
A boding voice is iu mine ear. 

We part to meet no more I 
But the last throb tbat leaves my hMll^ 

While death stands victor by, 
That throb, Eliza, is thy pan, 

Aud chine ^hat latest sigh t 



BURNS — POEMS. 



TUE FAREWELL. 



But see ;oa the crowni Low it wbtcs in lbs 
There, a big-beUj'd bottle still eases my care. 



Tjtne—** Good night an^ joy be wi' joi 



Adieu! a heart-warm, fond adieu. 

Dear brothers of the mystic tie ' 
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few, 

Compaaions of rav social joy I 
Tho' 1 to foreign landa must hie. 

Pursurng Fortune's slidd'ry ba'. 
With melting heart, and brimful eje, 

I'll mind jou stilly tho' far awa', 

IL 

Oft have I met yonr social band, 

And spent the cheerful festive night ; 
Oft honour'd with supreme command, 

Presided o'er the sons of light ; 
And by that hieroglyphic bright, 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw I 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa* 

IIL 

May freedom, harmony, and loTe» 

Unite you in the grand design. 
Beneath th' omniscient eye above. 

The glorious architect divine I 
That you may keep th' unerring line. 

Still rising by the plummet's law. 
Till order brigUt completely shine. 

Shall be my pray'r when far awa» * 

IV. 

And you, farewell ! -whose merits clainc 

Justly that highest badge to wear .' 
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble nam 

To masonry and Scotia dear ! 
A last request, permit me here. 

When yearly ye assemble a'. 
One round, I ask it with a tear. 

To him, the bard that's far awa' I 



No churchman am I for to rail and to write. 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to tight, 
"Jo sly man of business contriving a snare, 
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my 



XL 

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow 
[ scorn not the peasant, tho* ever so low ; 
But a club of good fellows like those that are 

here. 
And a bottle like thisp are my glory and care. 

IIL 
Here passes the squire on his brother — his 

horse ; 
There centum per centaiD} (he cit with his 

purse i 



The viife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
1 found that old Solomon proved it fair. 
That a big-belly 'd bottle's a cure for all ca 



I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform 'd me that all was to wreck ; 
But the pursy old landlord just waddl'd up 



With a gl< 
Life' 



s bottle that ended my cares, 
VL 



s cares they are comforts'* — a maxim 

laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore tb« 

black gown ; 
And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hairj 
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heaven of care. 

[A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge. ] 

Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow. 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
Way every true brother of the compass an4 

square. 
Have a big-belly'd bottle when barass'd with 

care. 



WKITTBN nr 
FRUR'S CARSE HERMITAGF 

ON NITH-SIDE. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead. 
Be thcu clad in russet weed. 
Be thou deck'd in silken stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy souL 

Life is but a day at most. 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost j 
Hope not sunshine every hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 

As youth and love with sprightly dancs, 
Beneath thy morning star advance. 
Pleasure with her siren air 
May delude the thoughtltss pair • 
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cop, 
Then raptured sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high. 
Life's meridiau flaming nigh. 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
Life's proud summits woaldstthou scale ? 
Check thy climbing step, elate. 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 
Dangers, eagle-pinion'd bold. 
Soar around each cliflFy hold. 
While cheerful peace, with linnet songi 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

* Young's Night Thoughts, 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beek'uing thee to long repose : 
As life itself becomes disease. 
Seek the chimney-neuk of ease. 
There ruminate with sober thought, 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wronght ; 
And teach the sportive younkers round. 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Saj, man's true, genuine estimate. 
The grand criterion of his fate. 
Is not. Art thon high or low ! 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind. 
As thou thyselfuiust shortly find, 
The smile or frown of awful Heaven, 
To yirtue or to TJce is given. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise. 
There solid self-enjoyment lies ; 
That foolish, sellisli, faithless ways. 
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting s'eep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake. 
Night where dawn shall never break. 
Till future life, future no more. 
To light and joy the good restore. 
To light and joy unknown before. 
Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy gu:de I 
Quod the headsman of Nith-side. 



SACRED TO THE MEaiORY OF ilES . 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark. 
Hangman of creation ! mark 
AVho in widow-weeds appears, 
Laden with unhonour'd years. 
Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
Baited with many a deadly curse ! 

STROPHE. 
View the wither'd beldam's face. 
Can thy keen inspection trace 
Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace ? 
Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows. 
Pity's flood' there never rose. 
See those hands, ne'er stretch 'd to save, 
Hands that took — but never gave. 
Keep«r of iMammon's iron chest, 
Lo, there she goes, unpitied, and unblest ; 
She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest ! 

ANTISTKOPHE. 
Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 
^A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends,) 
Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends ? 
No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; 
'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 
Doora'd to share thy fiery fate. 
She, tardy, hell-ward plies. 

EPODB. 
And are lliey of no more avail, 
Ten thousand gliit'ring pounds a-rear f 
lit other worlds can Mammon fail, 
Omnipotent as he is here ? 



O. bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 

While down the wretched vital part is driven! 
The cave-lodged beggar, with a conseien«» 

Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heaven. 



II 



CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, 

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT 
FOR HIS HONOURS IUMEDLATEI.V FROM 
ALMIGHTY GOD ! 



But now his radiant course is run. 
For Matthew's course was bright J 

His soul was like the glorious sun, 
A matchless heavenly light I 

O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ; 

"" meikle devil wi' a woodie 

Kauri thee hame to his black smiddie. 

O'er hurcheon hides. 
And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie, 

Wi' thy auldsidesi 

He's gane, he's gane I he's frae us torn. 
The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourr 

By wood and wild, 
Where haply, Pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exiled. 

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns. 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns .' 
Ye cliflfs, the haunts of sailiug yearns, 

WTiere echo slumbers I 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

Wy wailing numbers ! 

Mourn ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! 
i'e burnies wimplin down your glens, 

Wi' toddlin din. 
Or foaming, Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae lin to lin. 

Mourn little harebells o'er the lee ; 
Ye stately fox-gloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie 

In scented bowers ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree. 

The first o' flowers. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at its head. 
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shcd» 

1' th' rustling gale, 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade. 
Come join my wail. 

Mourn ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
i'e grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, je whirring paitrick brood ; 



He's 



le for ever I 



BURNS POEMS. 



Mourn, sootj coots, and speckled teals. 
Ye tisber herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

(.'ircling the lake; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 

Moarn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 
*Mang fields o' flow 'ring clover gay ; 
And wlien ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore. 
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay. 

Wham we deplore. 

Ye houlets frae your ivy bow'r. 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r. 
What time the moon, wi' silent glow*r. 

Sets up her horn. 
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 
Till waukrife morn I 

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 

Oft have ye heard mv cauty strains : 

But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of woe ; 

An' fi-ae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, spring, thon darling of the year ! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head. 
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear. 

For him that's dead ! 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair. 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear I 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air 

The roaring blast. 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light ! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright. 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, 

Ne'er to return. 

O Henderson ! the man, the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ! 
And hast thou cross'd that unknown river. 

Life's dreary bound! 

Like thee, where shall I lind another, 

__. The world around I 

Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great. 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by the honest turf I'll wait. 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay inearth. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger ! my story's brief; 

And truth i shall relate, man : 
I tell uae common tale o' grief. 

For Matthew was a great man. 



If thou a noble sodger art. 

That passest by this grave, man ; 

There moulders here a gallant heart. 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways. 
Cans"! throw uncommon light, man ; 

Here lies wha weel had won thy praise. 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca'. 
Wad life itself resign, man ; 

Thy sympathetic tear maun fa'. 
For Matthew was a kind man. 

If thou arl staunch without a stain. 
Like the unchanging blue, man. 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain, 
For Matthew was a true man. 

If thoa hast wit, and fun, and fire. 
And ne'er guid wine did fear, man. 

This was thy billie, dam, and sire. 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whingin sot, 
To blame poor Marthew dare, man j 

May dool and sorrow be his lot. 
For Matthew was a rare maiu 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OP 
SCOTS, 

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree. 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now Phffibus cheers the crystal streams. 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn. 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r. 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis mild wi' many a note. 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall oppress 'd. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank. 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen. 

And milk-white ii. the slae : 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland, 

May rove th«ir sweets amang ; 
But I, the Qneen of a' Scotland, 

Maim lie in prison Strang. 

I was the Queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy I hae been ; 
Fu' lightly raise I in the morn. 

As blithe lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the sovereign of Scotlasisl, 

And mony a traitor there ; 



riAJVJOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



/et here I lie in foreign bands 
And nevar euili&g care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman. 

My sister and my fae. 
Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae : 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe 

Frae woman's pitying ee. 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine : 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'er wad blink on mine! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee ; 
And where tbou meet'st thy mother's friend. 

Remember him for me I 

O ! soon, to me, may summer suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o ' death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring, 

filoom on my peaceful grave. 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. 

Oy FINTBA. 

Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg. 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg ; 
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and depress'd, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest ;) 
Will generous Graham list to his poet's wail ? 
It soothes, poor misery, hearkening to her 

tale.) 
And hear him curse the light he first survey 'd, 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade 1 

Thon, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign ; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
Une shakes the iorest, and one spurns the 

ground i 
Thou giv'fit the ass his hide, the snail his 

shell, 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his 

cell. 
Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour. 
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power, ^j 
Foies and statesmen, subtile wiles insure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their 

The priest and hedge-hog in their robes are 

Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, 
tier tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and 
darts. 

Bat Oh ! thou bitter stepmother and hard. 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the 

Bard! 
A thing unteachable in world's skill, 
Aod half aa idiot too, more helpless stilL 



No heels to bear him from the opening dun ; 
No claws to dig, bis haled sight to shun ; 
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, 
And those, alas ! not Anialthea's horn : 
No nerves olfactory, Mammon's trusty cur. 
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur. 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride. 
He bears the unbroken blast from every side i 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart. 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics — appall'd, I venture on the name. 
Those cut-throat bandits in the patbs of fame ; 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Munroes ; 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice 

By blockheads* daring into madness stung ; 
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, . 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must 

Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal 

strife. 
The hapless poet flounders on through life. 
Till fled each hope that once his bnsom iired. 
And fled each mnse that glorious once in- 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, 
Dead even resentment for his injured page. 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's 

rage! 



For half.starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast J 
By toil and famine worn to skin and bone. 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son, 

dulness I portion of the truly bless'd ! 
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 

Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup. 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up : 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well ce- 

They only wonder, « gome folks' do not starve ; 
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog. 
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope. 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling 

grope, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly thej bear. 
And just conclude ' that fools are fortune's 

So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks. 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 

Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train. 
Not such the workings of their moon-struck 

In equanimity they never dwell. 

By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell. 

1 dread the fate, relentless and severe. 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's tear ; 
Alceady one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust I 
(Fled, like the sun eclipsed as noon appears. 
And left us darkling in a world of tears :) 

O i hear my ardent, grateful, selfish prayer 1 
Fiutrai my other stuy^ lung bless aad spar*! 



li 



BURNS POEMS. 



T nro a long life hU holies and wishes crown, 
And bright ia cloudiebs skies his suu go 

down! 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path : 
Give energy to lite; and sootba his latest 

With many a filial tear circling the bed of 
death I 



LAMENT FOR JAJWES, EARL OF 
GLENCAIRN. 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills. 

By tils the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

ITiat waved o'er Lngar's winding stream! 
Beneath a craigy steep, a bard. 

Laden with years and >neikle pain, 
la loud lament bewail'd his lord. 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 



His locks were bleached white wi' ti-rie, 
His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! 

And as he touch'd his trembling harp. 
And as he tuo'd his doleful sang, 

The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 
To echo bore the notes alang. 

«• Ye scttter'd birds that faintly sing. 

The relics of the vernal quire J 
Ye woods that shed on a* the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad, and gay. 

Again je'll charm the ear and e'e ; 
But nocht in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me« 

*• I am a bending aged tree, 

Th-at long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast. 

And my last hald of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom : 
But I maun lie before the storm. 

And ithers plant them in my room. 



And thou, my ias», nest, only fHeod, 

I hat lillesi an untimely tomb. 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkeat glooa, 

«' Tn poverty's low barren vale ; 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round | 
Tho' oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found t 
Thou found'st rne like the morning sua 

That melts the fo^-s in limpid air. 
The friendless bard and rustic song 

Became elike thy fostering care. 

«• O ! Why has worth so short a date ? 

While villains ripen grey with time! 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rons, great. 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime 
Why did I live to see that day ! 

A day to me so full of woe I 
O I had I niet the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

•• The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour hath been ; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done for me ■** 



LINES, 

SENT TO SIR JOHM -WniTEFORD 0» 
VVHITEFORn, BART, WITH THB FORE* 
GOI>'0 POEM. 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God reyer'st. 
Who, save "thy mind's reproach, nought 

earthly fear'st. 
To thee this votive off 'ring I impart, 

' The tearful tribute of a broken heart" 
The friend thou valued'st, 1 the patron lov'di 
His worth, his honour, all the world ap- 



prov 'd. 
We'll mourn till we too go as h 
And tread the dreary path to that dark world 

unknown. 



s gone. 



I wander in the ways of e 

Alike unknowing and unknown i 

Unheard, ui pitied, unrelieved, 
I bear alane my lade o' care. 

For silent, low on beds of dust, 
Lie a' that would my sorrow share. 

• And last, (the sum of a' my griefs '■ ) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flower amang our barons bold. 

His country's pride, his country 
Id weary being now I pine. 

For a* the life of life i; deaJ, 
And hope has left my aged ken. 

On forward wing for ever fled. 

•• Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of woe and wild despair ; 
Awake, resound thy latest lay, 

Aod aleep in silence evermair 1 



TAM 0' SHANTER i 

A TALE, 



;tay ; When chapman billies leave the street. 

And droutliy ueebors, neebors meet. 
As warket-dn>s are wearing late, 
An' folk be^in to tak the gate ; 
While we sit bousin? at the nappy. 
An' gettin' fou an' unco tappy. 
We think na on the lang Scots miles. 
The mosses, waters, slaps, an' stylat. 
That lie between us and our ham«. 
Whore sits our sulkj sollen damo^ 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanier, 
As he frae Ajr ae ii gut did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 
f"or honest men aud bonny lasses.) 

O Tarn : hadst thou but been sae wise. 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou was a sicellum, 
A blethering, blustering, druulcen blellum ; 
That frae jVovember till October, 
Ae market-day thou was na sober ; 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller. 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on. 
The smith and thee gat ro&ring fou on ; 
That at the L— d's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drauk wi' KirktoQ Jean till Monday. 
She prophesy 'd, that late or soon. 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Boon ; 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By Aliowaj's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames I it gars me greet. 
To think how mony counsels sweet. 
How moay lengthen'd sage advices, • 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

Bat to our tale : Ae market night, 
Tam had got planted unco right ; 
Fast by an iagle, bleeziug finely, 
Wi' reaming- swats, that drank divinely : 
And at his elbow, souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
rhey had been fou for weeks thegiiher. 
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter ; 
And aye the ale was growing betttr : 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, aud precious / 
The souter tauld his queerest stones ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chuius : 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam did ua mind the storm a whistie. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drown'd himself aniang the nappy ; 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure. 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure : 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, ^ 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious I 

But pleasures are like poppies spread. 
You seize the tiow'r, its bloom is shed J 
Or like the snow-falls in the river, 
A moment white — then melts for ever : 
Or like the borealis race. 
That flit ere you can point their place ; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm, — 
Nae man can tether time nor tide : 
The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane. 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in, 
' Aud sic a night he taks the road in. 
As ne 'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattlin' showers rose on the blast : 
'J he speedy gleams the liarkiir-.-s swallow'd ; 
Loud, deep, siad Ian;,', me tiiunder bellow'd ; 



That night a child might understoud. 
The deil had business on his nana. 

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg — 
A better never lifted leg— 
Tam skelpit on through dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet ; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sontu 
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent care* 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Whai-e gbaists and houlets niglitly cry — 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare iu the snaw the chapman snioor'd : 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drucken Charlie brak 's neck bane j 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters faud the murder 'd bairn : 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. — 
Before him Doon pours all his floods ! 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 
The lightnings Cash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
Wben glimmering thro' the groaning trees. 
Kirk Alloway seem 'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing- 
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn 

tippenny, we fear nae evil; 
Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil. — 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle. 
Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. 
But Maggie stood right sair *stonish'd. 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventured forward on the light ; 
And, vow 1 Tam saw an nnco sight ! 
Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 
Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
A winaock-bunkef in the east, 

e sat auld Nick in shape o' beast ; 
wzie tyke, black, grim, and large. 
To gie them music was his charge : 

crew'd his pipes and gart them skir 

roof and rafters a' did dirl, 

Coffins stood round like open presses, 
ITiat shaw 'd the dead in their last dresses ; 

i by soaie devilish cantrip sleight. 
Each in its cauld hand held a light, — 
By V, hieh heroic Tam was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 

span-lang, wee uuchristeu'd bairna 
A thief uew-cutted frae a rape, 
\Vi' his last gasp his gab did gape : 
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted ; 
Five scimitars wi' murder crusted; 
A garter which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled. 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft. 
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft 
Wi' mair o' horrible and wfu' 
Which er'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curiout, 
he mirth and fun grew last and lurious : 
be piper loud and louder Dlew ; 
The daucers ^uick and quicker flew i 



BURNS— POEMS. 



Tliey ree y set, they cross'd, they 

cleekit. 
Till ilka carlia swat and reekit> 
And coost her duddies to the wark 
And linket at it iu her sark I 

Now Tam, O Tam ! Lad they been queens, 
A' pluQip an' strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie ilannen, 
Ueen snaw-white seventeen hunder linen ! 
Thir breekso' mine, luy only pair, 
That ance were plush o' guid blue hair, 
1 wad hae gi'en them aiF uiy hurdies ! 
For ae blink o' the bonuie burdiesl 

But witber'd beldams auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, , 

\ wonder didna turn iby stomach. 

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlle, 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 
That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn 'd on Carrick shore I 
For njonle a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish'd monie a bounie boat. 
And shook baith nieikle corn an bear, 
And kept the country side in fear,) 
Her cutty sark o' Paisley harn. 
That while a lassie she had worn. 
In longitude though sorely scanty. 
It was her best, and she was vauntie,— 
Ah! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie. 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches,) 
Wad ever graced a dance o' witches 1 

But here my muse her wing maun cour : 
Sic flights are far beyond her power : 
To sing how Nannie lap and Hang, 
(A souple jade she was an' Strang) 
An' how Tam stood like ane bewiich'd. 
An' thought his very een enrich 'd: 
Even Satan glowr'd and tidg'd fu' fain. 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tam tint his reason a' thegither. 
And roars ouf, •' VVeel done Cutty sark !" 
And in un instant all was dark ; 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizx out wI' angry fyke. 
When plund»/ing herds assail their bjke j 
As open pussie's mortal foes. 
When, pop I she starts before their nose j 
As eager runs the market crowd. 
When «« Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi* monie an eldritch screech and hollow. 

Ah, Tam ! Ah, Tam I thou'U get thy fairin. 
In hell they '11 roast thee like a herrin I 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin 1 
Kate soon will be a waefu* woman I 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane o' the brig ;+ 



* It 18 a well known fact, that witches, oi 
any evil spirits, have no power to follow a 
poor wight any farther than the middle of the 
next running stream. — It may be proper like- 
wise to mention to the benighted Uaveller, ( 



There at them thou thy tdl may toss, 
A running stream they darena cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make. 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
boT Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie press'd. 
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought afl' her master hale. 
But left behind her ain grey tail : 
The carlin caught her by the rump. 
An left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son take heed : 
Whene'er to drink you are inclined. 
Or cutty sarks run in your mind, 
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear. 
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE 
LIMP BY ME, 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barbarous art. 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye : 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field. 
The bitter little that of life remains : 
No more the thickening brakes and verdant 
plains. 

To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted 



The cold earth with thy bloody bosom press'd. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I musing wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruffiau's aim, and mourn thy 
ba'ilesa fate. 



ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF 
THOMSON, 



While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood. 

Unfolds her tender mantle green, 
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood. 

Or tunes Eoliaa straiiu between ; 
While Summer, with a matron grace. 

Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade. 
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 

The progress of the spiky blade : 
While Autumn, benefactor kind. 

By Tweed erects his aged head. 



that when he falls in with bogles, whatever 
dauger may be in his going forward, there « 
much more hazard iu turning back. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



While maniac Winter rages o'er 

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar. 

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of sn^ws : 



FOR G. H. Esq. 

The poor man -weeps— here G n glceps* 

Whom canting wretches blam'd : 

But with such as he, where'er He be. 
May I be sav'd or d ti ? 



ON A CELEBRATED RULING 
ELDER. 

Here souter John in death does sleep : 
To hell, if he's gane thither, 

Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, 
He'll hand it weel thegilher. 



ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : 

O Deaih, it's my opinion. 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch 

into thy dark dominion I 



ON WEE JOHNNY. 

Hicjacet wee Johnny. 

W^hoe'er thou art, O reader, know. 
That death has murder'd Johnny, 

kn' here his body lies fu' low — 
For saul, he ne'er had ony. 



FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. 

O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 

Dra\¥ near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 

Here lie the loving husband's dear remains. 
The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. 

The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; 
ITie dauntless heart that fear'd no human 

The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 

••For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtne's 
side."* 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-iij^pired fool, 
3wre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 

Let Lim draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 

And drap a tear. 

Is there a bard of rustic song. 
Who, noteless, steals (be crowds among, 
"■ .t weekly this area ihroug, 

O, pass not by ! 
But, with a frater feeling strong. 

Here heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear. 

Can others teach the course to steer, 

runs, himself, life's mad career. 

Wild as the wave; 

Here panse — and, through the starling tear* 

Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below, 
Was quick to learn and wise to know, 
And keenly felt the friendly glow. 

And softer flame. 
Bat thoughtless follies laid him low. 

And stain'd his name 

Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole. 
Or darkly grubs this earthly hole. 
In low pursuit : 
Know, prudent, cautii 



ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S 

PEREGRrNATXONS THHOUGH SCOTLAND 



Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's ; 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede ye tent it : 
A chield's amang you, taking notes. 

And, faith, he'll prent it 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 
L^pon a tine, fat, fodgel wight, 
itature short, but genius bright. 

That's he} mark weei-^ 



I 



BURNS POEMS. 



It's tea to ane je'll fiud him sdu^ in 
Some eldritch part, 

Wi' deils, they saji L— d safe's ! coUeaguIa' 
At some black arU 



Ilk ghaist that haunts anld ha' or chamer, 
Te gipsy-gang that deal in glamor. 
And jou deep-read in hell's black grammar. 

Warlocks and w itches ; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer. 

Ye midaight bitches. 

It's tanld he was a sodger bred. 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
Bat now he's quat the sportle blade. 

And dog-skin wallet. 
And ta'en the— Antiquarian trade, 

1 think thej call it. . 



He has a fouth o* auld nick-nackets ; 
Rusty aim caps and jinglin' jackets. + 
Wad baud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid : 
And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets. 
Before the flood. 



Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder : 
Auld Tubal-Grain's fire-shool and fender; 
That which distinguished the gender 

O* Balaam's ass; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 

Weel shod wi' brass. 



Forbye he'll shape yon aflF, fa' gleg. 
The cut of Adam's philibeg ; 
The ku.fe that nicket Abel's craig. 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a fatilding jjicteleg. 

Or lang-kallgnllie.— 



But wad ye see him in his glee. 
For meikle glee and fun has he. 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him 
And port, O port ! shine thou a wee. 

And then ye'll see hiu 



Now, by the powers o' verse and prose I 
Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose 1 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose. 

Wad say, Shame fa' thee 



* Vide his Anfitjnities of Scotland, 
t Vide his treatise on Ancient Armour and 
Weapons, 



TO iMISS CRUIKSHANKS. 

A VERY YOUNG LAD r, WRITTEN ON TBH 
BLANK LEAF OK A BOOK, PRHSISNTKD 
TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay 
Blooming on ihy early iMay, 
Never may'st thou, lovely tiow'r. 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'rl 
Never Boreas' hoary path. 
Never Eurus' pois'uous breath. 
Never baleful stellar lights. 
Taint thee with untimely bh'ghts t 
Never, never reptile thief 
Riot on thy virgin leaf 1 
Nor erer Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom blushing still with dew ! 

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem. 
Richly deck thy native stem ; 
Till some ev'ning, sober, calm. 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm. 
While all around the woodland rings. 
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings ;° 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound. 
Shed thy dying honours round. 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 



Anna, thy charms my bosom fire. 
And waste my soul with care; 

But, ah ! how bootless to admire. 
When fated to despair ! 

Yet in thy presence, lovely Fair, 
To hope may be forgiven ; 

For sure 'twere impious to despair. 
So much in sight of Heaven. 



ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, 

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ. 



Sad thy tale, thon idle page. 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew 
The raornin? rose may blow ; 

But cold successive noontide blasts 
May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 
The sun propitious smiled ; 

But long ere noon, suceeeding clouds 
Succeeding hopes beguiled. 

Fate oft tears the bosom chords 
That nature finest strung ; 

So Isabella's heart was form'd. 
And BO that heart was wrong. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Dread OmuTpotence, alone, 
Can heal the wound he gave ; 

Can point the brimful ^riet-worn eye 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Yirluous blossoms there shall blowi 
And fear no withering biast ; 

There Isabella's spotless worth 
Shall happy be at last. 



HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR 
WATER.* 

TO THE NOBI.E DUKK OF ATHOLE. 

Mv Lord, T know your noble ear 

'Woe ne'er assails in vain ; 
Einbolden'd thuS} I beg you'll hear 

Your humble slave complain. 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, 

In flaming summer-pride. 
Dry-withering, waste my foaming streams, 

And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly jumping glowrin trouts, 

That thro' my waters play. 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray ; 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow. 
They're left the whit'ning stanes amang. 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat, ■wi* spite and teen, 

As poet Burns came by. 
That, to a bard I should be seen, 

Wi' half my channel dry i 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween. 

Even as I was he shored me ; 
But had I in my glory been, 

Ue, kneeling, wad adored me. 

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

lu twisting strength I rin ; 
Thtre, high my boiling torrent smokes. 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoyng large each spring and well 

Asnature gave them me, 
I ain, although Isay't raysel. 

Worth gaua a mi'le to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'il shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, 

And bonnie spreading bushes ; 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks. 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock warbling wild. 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child. 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
Tlie blackbird strong, the lintwhlte clear, 

The mavig wild and mellow. 



* Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly 
picturesque and beautiful ; but their eli'ect" is 
much impaired by the want of trees and 
shrubs 



The robin pensive, autumn cheer. 
In all her locks oryell')w : 

This too, a covert shall insure, 

Tc shield them from the storm ; 
And coward maukin sleep secure. 

Low in her grassy form ; 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat* 

To weave his crown of flowers ; 
Or find a jhelt'ring safe retreat. 

From prone descending showers. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth. 

Shall meet the loving pair. 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty idle care: 
The fljwer's shall vie in all their charmj 

The hour of heaven to grace. 
And hirks extend their fragrant arms 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here, haply too, at vernal dawn. 

Some musing bard may stray. 
And eye the smiking, uewy lawn. 

And misty mountain, grey ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam. 

Mild chequering thro' the trees. 
Rave to my darkly dashing stream. 

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool. 

My lowly banks o'erspread. 
And view, deep-bending in the pool 

Their shadows' watery bed! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines dress'd. 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And for the little songster's nest. 

The close embow'ring thoru. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope. 

Your little angel band. 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native landl 
So may, thro' Albion's farthest ken. 

To social flowing glasses. 
The grace be — " Athole 's honest mea 

And Athole's bouuie lasses I " 



ON SCARING SOME WATER- fOWL, 



OX LOCH-TURIT ; 



Why, ye tenants of the lake. 
For me your watery haunt forsake ? 
Tell me, fellow-cieatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ? 
Why disturb your social Joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ? 
Common friend to you and me. 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, 
I Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock. 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race^ 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace, 
Man, your proud, usurpinff foe. 
Would be lord of all below; 



a 



Tjra.. 

"Vne eagle» from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below. 
In ilia breast no pity dwells. 
Strong necessity compels. 
But man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying heav'n. 
Glorious in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 



In these savage, liquid plains, 
Only known to wandering swains, 
Where the mossy riv'iet strays : 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on Nature you depend. 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might, 
Dare invade your native right, 
On the lofty ether borne. 
Wan with all his pow'rs you scorn ; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings. 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECB IN THB PAR- 
LOUR OF THB INN AT KENMOBB, TAf- 
MOUTH. 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace. 

These northern scenes with weary I'eet I trace ; 

O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,, 

Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep* 

My savage journey, curious, I pursue. 

Till famed Breadalbane opens to my view.— 

The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen di- 

The woods, wild-scatter'd, clothe their ample 

sides. 
An outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the 

hills. 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 
The 'lay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, 
The palace rising on his verdant side. 
The lawns wood fringed in Nature's native 

The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste! 
Till! arches striding o'er the new-born stream ; 
The village, glittering in the noontide beam- 
Poetic ardours in ray bosom swell. 
Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell : 
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 
The incessant roar of headlong tumbling 



Here Poesy might wako her heav'n-taught 

And look through nature with creative fire : 
Here, to llie wrongs of fate half reconciled, 
Misfortune's lighien'd steps might M'aader 

wild; 
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, 
FiuU balm to soothe her bitter raukling 

wounds t 



Here heart-struck Grief might heave 

stretch her scan. 
And injured Worth forget and parcbu n 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR 
liOCH-NESS. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds. 
Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream 
resounds. 

As high in air the bursting torrents flow. 
As deep recoiling surges foam below, 
Prone down the rock the whitening shoot de- 
scends, 
And viewless echo's ear, astonish 'd, rends. 
Dim-seen, through rising mists, and ceaseless 

showers. 
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, lowers. 
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils. 
And still below, the horrid caldron boils. 



ON THE BIRTH OF 



A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 



BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES Of 
FAMILY DISTRESS. 

Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle Iotc, 

And ward o' mony a prayer. 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair! 

November hirples o'er the lea. 

Chill on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree. 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour» 

And wings the blast to blaw. 
Protect thee frae the driving shower. 

The bitter frost and snaw ! 

May He, the friend of woe and want. 
Who heals life's various stounds. 

Protect and guard the mother plants 
And heal her cruel wounds ! 

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast. 



Bless 'd be thy bloom, thou lovely get 
Unscathed by rufiiau band ! 

And from tliee many a parent Stem 
Arise to deck uur laud 1 



DIAiMOND CABINET LIii[&\KY. 



THE WHISTLE: 



As the authentic prose history of the Whistle 
is curious, 1 shall here pive it. — la the train 
ef Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scot- 
land with our James the Sixth, there came 
over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic sta- 
ture and great prowess, and a matchless cham- 
pion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony 
\Vhistle which at the commencement of the 
orgies he laid on the table, and whoever was 
last able to blow ii» every budy else being dis- 
abled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry 
off the Whistle as a trophy of victory. The 
Dane produced credentials of his victories, 
without a single t'efeat, at the courts of Copen- 
hagen, Stockholm, Mo.cow, Warsaw, and 
eeveral of the petty courts in Germany, and 
challenged the Scots Bacchaualiajis to the al- 
ternative of trying his prowess, or else of ac- 
knowledging their inferiority. After many 
overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane 
■was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie of 
Blaxwelton, ancestor to the present worthy 
baronet of that name ; who, after three days 
and three nights' hard contest, left the Scan- 
dinavian under the table, 

And blevT on the "Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before men- 
tioned, afterwards lost the Whistle to Walter 
Kiddel, of Glenriddel, who had married a 

Bister of Sir Walter's On Friday the ICth 

of October. 1790, at Friars Carse, the Whis- 
t'e was once more contended for, as related in 
tne ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of 
Maxwelton; Robert Riddel, lisq. of Glenrid- 
del, lineal descendant and representative of 
Walter Riddel, who won the Whistle, and in 
who!>e family it had continued ; and Alexander 
Ferguson, Esq, of Criigdarroch, likewise de- 
scended of the great Sir Robert; which last 
gentlemau carried off the hard-won honours of 
the iield. 



1 sing of a ^Vhistle, a Whistle of worth, 
I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, 
Wa« brought to the court of our good Scottish 

And long with this WhisUe all Scotland shall 



•• This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland 

gel o'er. 
And driuk them to hell, Sir I or ne'er see me 

morel" 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell. 
What ch&mpions ventured, what champions 
feU| 



* bee Osiian's Caric<tbnra. 



Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and lb 
Scaur, 
Unroatch'd at the bottle, unconqner'd in war. 
He drank his poor godship us deep as the 

No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than be 

Thus Robert victorious, the trophy baa 
gain'd; 
Which now in bis house has for ages re- 
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his 
The jovial contest again have renew 'd. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear 

oliiaw; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and 

law; 
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill 'd in old coins ; 
And gallant i;ir Robert, deep read in old 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth 



And once more, in claret, try which was the 

•• By the gods of the ancients, '' Glenriddei 

replies, 
" Before I surrender bo glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorit 

More.t 
And bumper his born with him twenty times 



Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pre 
tend. 
But he ne'er tarn'd his back on his foe— or his 

Said, Toss down the Whistle, the prize of tbe 

field. 
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes re« 

So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 
But for wine and for welcome not more known 

Than the sense, wit, end taste, of a sweet 
lovely dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the fray ; 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen. 
And wish'd that Parnassus a viuejurd had 
been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply. 
And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy, 
la the bauds of old friendship and kindred so 



-f See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. 



BURNS — P0E3JS. 



And vowed that to leave them he was quite 

forlorn. 
Till Cynihia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well worn out the 
night. 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one ouraper a lottle of red, 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors 
did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and 
sage. 
No longer the warfare ungodly would wage ; 
4 high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to follcs less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the 

But who can with fate and quart bumpers con- 
tend ? 

Though fate said— a hero should perish in 
light ; 

So up rose bright Phoebus and down fell the 
knight. 

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in 
drink ;- 
•' Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation 



lime! 

*< Thy line, that have struggled for Freedom 

with Bruce, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce ; 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; 
'ihe field thnu hast won, by yon bright god of 

day I " 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHEK POET-* 

AULD NEEBOR, 
I'm ihree times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-farrent, frien'ly lettei ; 
Tho' 1 maun say't, I doubt ye Halter, 

Ye speak so fair i 
For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter, 

Some less mauu gair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, 
fae cheer you through the weary widdle 



* This is prefixed to (he poems of David 
SiUar, pul.lished at Kiluiarnock. 1789. and 
has not De6ure appeared *" ■gur author's printed 
poems. 



Au'gif it's sae, ye sud be lick it 

Until ye fyke; 
Sic hans as yon sud ne'er be faikit. 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 

Riviu' the words tae gar them cliuk ; [drink, 

VVhyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi* 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think, 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Conimen' nie to the bardie clan j 
Except it be some idle plan 

C rhymin' clink, 
The devil-haet, that I buld ban. 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme of lirin** 
Nae care= to gie us joy or grievin' : 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in. 

An' while ought's (here 
Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin' 

An' fash nae i„ 

Leeze me on rhyme ! its aye a treasure. 
My chief, amais; my only pleasure. 
At hame, a-liel', nt wark or leisure. 

The Muse, poor hizziel 
Tho' rough an* raploch be her measure. 

She's seldom lazy. 

Hand tae the Muse, my dainty Davie ; 
The warl' may play you mony a shaviej 
But for the !Niu=e, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae poor, 
Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie 

Frae door to door. 



ON MY EARLY DAYS. 



I mind it weel, in early date. 

When I was beardless^ young, and blate* 

An' first could thresh the barn ; 
Or baud a yokin o' the pleugh ; 
An' tlio' forfoughten sair eneugh, 

Yet unco proud to learn ; 
When first ainang (he yellow corn 

A man I reckon'd was. 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass. 
Still shearing, and clearing 

The tither stocked raw, 

Wi' claivers, an' haivers. 

Wearing the day aws= 

IL 

E'en then a wish, I mind its pow»r» 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast. 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake 
I Some usefu' plan or book could make. 

Or sing a sang at least. 
! Thf TDUirh burr-thistle, soreading ytiit 
I Ainiiiij- the beaideil bear. 



224 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



I iiiru'd ibe weeder-clips aside. 

An' vpared the symbol-dear; 

A'o nation, no station. 

My envy e 'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 

IIL 

Hut still the elements o' san^ 

In formless jumble, right an' wrang. 

Wild floated in my brain : 
'Till on that har'st 1 said before, 
Wy partner in 'he merry core, 

She roused Ae forming sirain: 
I see her yet, the sonsie queen. 

That lighted up her jingle, 
Her witching smile, her pauky een 
That gart my heart-strings tingle : 
I tired, inspired. 

At every kindling keek. 

But bashing, and dashing, 

1 feared aye to speak*. 



SONG. 
Tutu — "Bonnie Dundee." 

3 there dwells six proper young 
Is neighbour 



In Mauchlir 

The pride of the pli 

T? eir carriage and dress, a stranger would 

In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a'. 
Miss jMiller is tine, Miss Warkiand s divine, 
Miss Smith she has wit, and Aiiss Hetty is 

Ihere's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss 
Morton, 
But Armour'sf the jewel for me o' them a*. 



ON THE DEATH OF 

SIR JAftlES HUNTER BLAIR, 



Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darken- 
ing air. 
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander 'd by each cliff and dell, 
Once the loved haunts of Scotia's royal 
train ;± 
Or mused where limpid streams, once hallow 'd 
well,§ 
Or mould 'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. || 

■* The reader will find some explanation of 
(his poem, in page 14. 

t This is one of our Bard's early produc- 
tions. Miss Armour is now Mrs Buma. 

4. The King's Park at HoJyroodii»Use. 

§ St Anthony's Well. 

i! St Anthony's Chapel, 



stately 



Th* Increasing blast roar'd ronud the beetling 

The clouds, swift<wing*d, flew o'er the star 

ry sky, 
l"he groaning trees untimely shed their locks. 
And shooting meteors caught the startling 

eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east. 
And 'nioiig the 

In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast. 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving 
storjai. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd ; 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe. 
The lightning of het eye in tears imbued. 

Reversed that sj 
Reclin'd tha 
furl'd. 
That like a deathful meteor gleam 'd afnr. 
And braved the mightj monarchs of the 
world 

" My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" 

W'ith accents uild and lifted arms she cried ; 
" Low lies the hand that oft was stretch 'd to 



The drooping arts around their patron's bier, 
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt 
sigh. 

" I saw ray sons resnme their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow ! 
But, ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has laid the guai-dian low. 



No ; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 
And future ages hear his growing fame, 

" And I will join a mother's tender cares. 

Thro' future times to .-nake his virtues last, 
That distant years may boast of othel 



ON THE BLANK LEAK OF A COP? OF TUB 
POEMS, PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEET- 
HEAKT, THEN MARRIED. * 

Once fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dcar» 
Sweet early object of my youthful vows. 



*The girl mentioned in the letter to Or 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS: 

A CANTATA. 



BURNS POEtaS. 

Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere. And the Moro low was laid at the souna of tha 
Friendship I 'tis all cold duty now al- dram. 

lows Lai de dandle, &c. 

And when you read the simple artless rhymes. 

One frieadly sigh for him, he asks no .nore. j j^jj ^^^ ^;j^ Cu^^ ^ ^]^^ fLoaiing 
Who distant burns m naming torrid climest batt'ries 

Orfaaply Ues beneath th' AUautic roar. ^^^ tj^^^e I 1^^ f^, ^jmegg an arm and a 

limb; 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to 

head me, 
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of tM 
drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

IV. 

And now though I must beg with a wooden 

And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my 

I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and 

my caJlet, 
As when I used in scarlet to foUow the drum. 
Lai de dandle, &c 

V. 

What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand tho 

winter shocks. 
Beneath the woods and rocks often times for a 

When the tother bag I sell, and the tother 

bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound »i 



RBCITATIVO. 

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird. 
Or wavering like the bauckie-bird,* 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast ; 
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skjte, 
And infant frosis begin to bite, 
In hoary cranreuch drest ; 
Ae night at een a merrj core, 

O* randie, gangrel bodies. 
In Poosie-Mansie's held the sp'.ure 
To drink their orra duddies : 
y/i' yuaffiiig and laughing. 

They raoied and tUes sa.ig ; 
Wi' jumping aiul thumping. 
The very girdle rang. 

First, neist the fire, in auld red rags, 
&.ue sat, vveel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His uoxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usqjebae an' blankets warm- 
Sue blinket on her sodger : 
An' a^e he gies the touzie drab 

The titber skelpin' kiss. 
While she held up her greedy gab 



like a cadgf 






Am. 
Tune—'* Soldier's Joy.' 



I am a son of Mars who have been 

wars. 

And show my cuts and scars wherever I come; 
This here was for a weuch, and that other iu 

When welcoming the French at the sound of 
the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

IL 

My 'prenticeship I pass'd where my leader 

breath'd his last. 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights 

of Abram : 



A The old Scotch name for the bat. 



theci 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

RBCITATIVO' 

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rattans backward leuk, 

And seek the benuiost bore ; 
A fairy fiddler frae the neukf 

He skirl'd out encore ! 
But up arose the martial chuck. 

And laid the loud uproar. 

AIK. 
Tun&—** Soldier Laddie. " 



I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when. 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
" e one of a troop of dragoons was my 

daddie. 

No wouder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lai de lal, itc. 

II. 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so 

Transported was I with my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

in. 

But the godly old chaplain left him in the 

So the sword I forsook for the saica of t^ 
church, 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 

de vintnr'd the soul and 1 risked the body, Adown tny cheeks the pearls ran, 
Twas chea i piov 'd false to my sodger laddis. Kmbracing my John Highlauuniao. 
Singi Lai de lal, &c. Sing, he)', &c 



IV. 

Full soon I grew tick of the sanctified sot. 
The regimeai at large for a bu=band 1 jjot ; 
From the gilded spoatoou to the fife' I was 

ready, 
I asked no more bat a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lai, &e. 

T. 

Bnt the peace it rednc'd me to beg in despair, 
Till I met mj old boy at a Cunningham fair j 
His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, 
My heart it rejoiced at my soJger laddie, 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

VL 

And now I have liv'd — I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 

But whilst with both hands 1 can hold the 

glass steadj. 
Here's to theei my hero, my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de iai, Ika. 

KECITATIVO. 

Then niest oulspak a raucle carlin, 
Wba keiit sae »eel to cleek the sterling, 
For monie a pur^ie she hud booked, 
And bad in mony a well been ducked. 
Her dove bad been a Uighiand laddie. 
Mat wfarj fa' the waefu' woodie 1 
\Vi' sigbs and sods she thus began 
To wail her braw John Uighlaudman. 

Aia. 
Tune — •• an' ye were dead Gudeman." 

I. 

A Highland lad my love was bom, 
T.ifc Lalland laws he held in scorn ; 
Lut be still was faithfu' to his clsn, 
Aiy gallant braw John UighUudman. 



Sing, hey ray braw John Highlandman ! 



IL 

With his philibeg an' tirtan plaid. 
An' guJe claymore down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
Wy gallant braw John Hi^rbiauviman. 
Sing, hey, &e, 

HI. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
An» lived like lords and ladies ?ay ; 
For a Lalland face he feared none. 
My gallant braw John Highiandinan, 
Sing, hey, &c 

IV. 



V. 

Bat, oh ! 'hey catch'd him at the lastf 
And bound bim in a dungeon fast: 
My curse upon them every one. 
They're hang'd my braw John Highlandm 
Sing, hey, &c. 

VL 

And now a widow, I must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return ; 
No comfort but a hearty can. 
When I think on Jobii'liighlandmaiu 
Sing, hey, ^c 



KECITATIVO. 



Had hol'd his heariii 



i' blai 



afire. 



\Vi' hand on hannch, an* upward e'e. 
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three. 
Then in an Arioso key. 

The wee ApoUo 
Set off wi' Allegretto glee 

His giga Eolo. 

AIR. 

Time—*' Whistle owre the lave o't.** 

L 

Let me ryke up to digbt that tearf 
An' go wi' me and be my dear. 
An' tben your every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 



I am a fiddler to my trade. 
An' a' tbe tunes that e'er I play'd. 
The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
"Was whistls owre the lave o'u 

IL 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there. 
An' O ! sae nicely 's we will fare; 
We'll bou,e about till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle o'er the lave o'u 
I am, &c 

IlL 

Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke» 

An' sun ouVsels about the dyke. 

An' al our leisure, when we like. 

We'll whistle o'er the lave o't. 

I am, ^C 

IV. 

Bnt bless me wi' your heaven o' charuii. 
And while I kiltie hair on thairms, 
Hunger, cauld, an' a' sick barms. 
May whistle owre the lave o'U 
lam, &C. 



BURNS. —POEMS. 



RBCITATIVO. 



Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird, 

As weel as poor Gutscraper ; 
He taks the fiddler by the beard, 

And draws a rusty rapier — 
He swoor by a' was swearing ■worth. 

To speet him like a pliver. 
Unless he would from that time forth, 

Kelinquish her for ever. 

Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle dee 

Upon his hunkers bended. 
And pray 'd for grace wi' ruefu' face, 

And sae the quarrel ended. 
But though his little heart did grieye. 

When round the tinkler prest her, 
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, 

When thus the caird address'd her. 

AIR. 
Tune. — ** Clout the Cauldroiu" 



My bonnie lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station ; 
I*ve travell'd round all Christian ground 

In this my occupaton, 
I've ta'eii the geld, I've been enroU'd 

In many a noble squadron : 
Bat vain they searchM, when oflFI march'd 



Despise that shrimp, that withet'd imp, 



Wi' 






those that bear 
The budget an' the apron. 
An' by thai stowp, my faith and houp. 

An' by thai dear Keilbagle,* 

If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant. 

Way I ne'er weei my craigie. 

An' by that stowp, &e. 

RECITATIVO. 

The caird prevail 'd— the unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk. 
Partly wi' love o'ercouie sae sair. 

All' partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man of spunky 
"Wish'd unison between the pair. 

An' made the bottle clunk 

To their health that nighU 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft 

That play'd a dame a shavie. 
The tiddl<r rak'd her fore and aft, 

Behint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's { craft, 

Tho' limping with the spavie. 
He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft. 

Ad' shor'd them Damtie Davie 
O boot that nighU 



He was a care-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed. 
Though Fortune sair upon him laid, 

His heart she ever missM it. 
He had no wish but— to be glad, 

)r want but — when he thirsted; 
He hated nought but — to be sad, 
And thus the Muse suggested. 

His sang that night. 

AIR. 

Tune—'* For a' that, an' a' that.'* 



I am a bard of no regard, 

Wi' gentle folks, an' a' that : 

But Homer-like, the gtowran byke, 
P'rae town to town I draw that. 



For a' that, an* a' that; 

An' twice as melkle's a' that ; 
I've lost but ane, I've twa behin' 

I've wife enough for a' that. 

II. 

I never drank the Muse's stank, 
Cnstalia's burn, an' a' that ; 

But there it streams, and richly reams, 
My Helicon I ca' that. 

For a' that, &c 

ni. 

Great love I bear to a' the fair, 
'Iheir humble slave, an' a' that; 

But lordly will, I hold it slill 
A mortal sin to ihraw that. 

For a' that, &c 



IV. 



But for how lang the Hie may stang. 
Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, &c 



Their tricks and craft have put me daft. 
They 've ta'en me in an' a' that : 

But clear your decks, and here's— the sex! 
T like the jads for a' thai. 

•' For a' that, an' a' that. 
An' twice as meikle's a' that j 

Dly dearest bluiJ, to do them guid. 
They're welcome till't for a' that, 

RfeCITATlVO. 

So sung the bard— and Nansie's wa'8 
Shook with a thunder of applause. 

Re echo'd from each mouih; 
They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn*d 



♦ A peculiar sort of whisky so called, 
^eat favourite with Poosie-Nansie's clubs. 

t Homer is allowed to be the oldest ballad- 
linger on record* 



Thenowre again, the jovial thrang. 

The poet did request. 
To lowse his pack an' wale a MOg, 

A ballad o' tbebeMt 



He rising, rejoicing. 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, an' found ttiem 

Impatient for the ehorus. 

AIK. 

Jolly Mortals fill "our Glas 



See the smoking bowl before us, 
Mark our jovial ragged ring ! 

Round and round take up Che chorus, 
And in raptures 'let as sing. 



A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty 's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for aowards were erected. 

Churches built to please the priest. 

11. 

What is title ? what is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no inaMer how or where ! 

A fig, &C. 

IIL 

With the ready trick and fable. 
Round we wauder all the day ; 

And at night in barn or stable ; 
Hug our doxies on the hay. 

A fig, &C. 

IV. 

Does the train-attended carriage 
Through the country lighter rove • 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love ? 
A fig, &c 

V. 

Life is all a variorum. 

We regard not how it goee ; 
Let ihem cant about decorum 

Who have characters to lose. 

A fig. Sec, 

\I. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all the wand'ring train I 
Here's our ragged brats ana callels ! 

One and all cry out. Amen I 

A^fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty 's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected. 

Churches built to please the priest. 



THE KIRK'S ALARM. ;« 

A SATIRE. 

Orthodox, orthodox, wha believe in John 
Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your oooscience ; 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. ^^^^^ 

There's a heretic blast has been bl&WQ in tbe 
That what is no sense must be nonseu««. 



Dr Mac,f Dr Mac, you should stretch on a 

To strike evil doers wi' terror ; 
To join faith and aeuse upon ony pretence. 
Is heietic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I de- 
clare. 
To meddle wi' m-schief a-brewing ; 
Provost John is still deaf to the church's 
lief. 
And orator Bob i is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild,§ D'rymple mild, tho' your 
heart's like a child. 
And your life like the new driven s 
Yet that winua save ye, auid Satan must hav6 

y«. 

For praaching that three's ane an' twa. 

Rumble John,{| Rumble John, mount the 
steps wi' a groan. 
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 
Then lug out the ladle, deal brimstone Ilka 
adle. 
And roar ev'ry note of the damu'd. 

Simper James, ^ Simper James, leave the fait 
Killie dames. 
There's a holier chace in your view ; 
I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye '11 sooa 
lead. 
For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawney,** Sluget Sawney, are ye 
herding the penny. 
Unconscious what evils await ; 
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every 

For the foul thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld,ft Daddy Auld, there's a tod in 
the fauid, 
A tod meikle waur than tbe clerk ; 
Tho' ye can do little scaith, ye'il be in at the 
death. 
And if ye canna bite ye may bark. 

Davie Bluster, j::|: Davie Bluster, if for a saint 
ye do muster. 
The corps is no nioe of recruits ; 
Yet to worth let's be ju3t, royal blood ye might 
boajt. 
If thb ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamie Goose,§§ Jamie Goose, ye hae made but 
toora roose, 
In bunting the wicked lieutenant ; 
But the Doctor's yoiu: mark, far the L— d's 
haly ark ; 
He has cooper'd and cawd a vrrang pin in't. 



11 

II 



t Dr M' 11, J B 

« Di D e. Mr R_ 

f Mr M' y. ** Mr M- 

UMrA d. ttMrG ,0 

§g Ms Y ■ g, Cumnoclb 



IL 



BURNS.— POLjis 



Poet Willie,* Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a 
volley, 

Wi* your liberty's chain and your wit ; 
O'er Pegasus' side you ne'er laid a stride. 

Ye buc smelt, man, the place where he sh-t. 

Andro GouV,| Andro Gouk, ye may slander 
the book. 
And the book not the waur let me tell ye ; 
Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hac and 

And ye'll hae a calf's head o* sma* value. 

Barr Steenie,^ Barr Steenie, what mean ye ? 
.» what mean ye ? 

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter. 
Ye may ha'e some pretence to havius and 

Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine 8ide,§ Irvine side, wi' your turkey-cock 

Of manhood but sma' is your share ; 
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will 
allow. 
And your friends they dare grant you nae 



Muirland Jock,|l Muirland Jock, when the 
L— d niaJMs t. rock 
To crush Cnw rtcr Sense for her sins. 
If ill maniuTs weie wit, there's no mortal 
so fit 
To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Will,*!! Holy Will, there was wit i' your 
skull. 
When je pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; 
The timmer is scant, when ye 're ta'en for a 

Wha should swing in a rape fee aa faoer. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ri- 
tual guns, 

Vour hearts ar 
enough, 
And your skulls a 



i storehouses o' lead. 

your priest- 



V .>urns. Poet Burm 
skclping turns. 
Why desert ye your auld native shire ; 
Your muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were 



THE TWA HERDS.** 

O a' ye pious godly flocks, 
Weel fed on pastures orthodox, 
Wha now will keep you frae the fox. 
Or worrying tykes. 



♦ Mr P B, Ayr. f Dr A. M 1! 

t Mr S Y , Barr. 

I g Mr S h, Galston. |1 Mr S d, 

'l T An Elder in Mauchline. 

\\ **■ This piece was among the tirst of oi 
[ Author's productions which he submitted t 
I the public ; and was occasioned by a dispute 
between two clergymen, near K.ilmarovck. 



The twa best herds in a* the wastf 
That e'er ga'e gospel hora a blast. 
These five and twenty simmers past, 

O ! dflol to ted, 
Ha'e bad a bitter black out-cast 

Atweeu them^el. 

O, M .y, man, and worthy R 11, 

How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'll see how new-light herds will whistle. 

And think it fine I 
The Lord's cause ne'er got sic a twissle. 

Sin' I ha'emin'. 

O, Sirs ! whae'er wad ha'e expeckit. 

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit. 

Ye wha were ne'er by laird respeckit. 

To wear the plaid. 
But by the brutes themsels elekit. 

To be their guide. 

What flock wi' M y's flock could rank, 

Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison'd soor Armmian stank. 

He let them taste, 
Ftae Calvin's well, aye clear, they drank, 

sic a feast t 

The Thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, 
Weel keud his voice thro' a' the wood. 
He smelt their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in. 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid. 

And sell their skin. 

What herd like R 11 tell'd his tale. 

His voice was heard thro' muir and dale. 
He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail 

O'er a" the height. 
And saw gin they were sick or hale. 

At the first sighu 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub. 

Or nobly fling the gospel club. 

And new-light herds could nicely drub. 

Or pay their skin. 
Could shake them o'er the burning dub ; 

Or heave them in. 

Sic twa~0 ! do I live to see't. 
Sic famous twa should disagreet, 
An' names, like villain, hypocrite, 

Ilk ith'.T giein. 
While new-light herds wi' laughin spite. 

Say neither's liein' 1 



A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, 

There's D n, deep, and P 

But chiefly thou, apostle A— J« 

We trust in thee. 
That thou wilt work them, het and cauld. 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we»re beset. 
There's scarce a new herd that we get. 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set> 



shaal^ 



£30 



dumonD cabinet LIBRART. 



D e has been lan^ onr fae, 

M* II has wrought as meikle wae, 

And that curs'd rascal ca'd M* e, 

And baith the S 9, 

That aft ha'e made us black and blae, 

Wi' Teagefu' paws. ' 

Anld W yr lang has hatch'd mischief, 

We thought aje death wad bring relief. 
Bat he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed hiai, 
A ctield wha'll soundly buff our beef; 

I meikle dread him. 

And monie a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forby luru-coats amang oursel. 

There S-^h for ane, 



O ! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills. 

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, 

Come join jour counsel and your skills, 

To cow the lairds, 
^d get the brutes the power themsels. 

To choose their herds. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 
And learning m a woody dance. 
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair, 
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and Dalryraple's eloquence* 

W' ll's close nervous excellence, 

W'Q — e's pathetic manly sense. 

And guid M' h, 

M'i' S — h| who through the heart cau gluice, 

Way a' pack aff. 



THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND. 

Cnrs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life. 
The crouching rassal to the tyrant wife. 
Who has no wiil but by her high permission ; 
Who has not sixpence but in her possession ; 
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell; 
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. 
Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart;' 
I'd charm her with the raa?ic of a switch, 
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b h. 



ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. 

For lords or kings I dinna mourn, 
E'en let them die— for tdat they're bornl 
But, oh, prodigious to reflect, 
A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck! 
O Eiffhty-eight, in thy sma' space 
What dire events ha'e taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us I 
In what a pickle thou has lelt us I 

The Spanish empire's tint a head. 
An' my auld toothless Bawtle's dead ; 
The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox, 
An' oar guid wife's wee bixdy cocks ; 



The taen is game, a blnidy devil. 
But to the hen-t)irds unco civil ; 
'Ihe tither's dour, has iiae sic breedin'. 
But better stufl' ne'er claw'da midoen I 

Ye ministers, come mount the pulpit. 
An' cry till ye be hearse and roopit ; 
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you wee). 
An' gied you a* baith gear an' meal ; 
E'en mony a piack, an' mony a peck. 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck i 



Observe the very nowt an* sheep. 
How dowff an' aowie now they creep ; 
Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry. 
For Embro' wells are grutten dry. 

O Eighty-nine thou's but a bairn. 
An' no owre auld, 1 hope, to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care. 
Thou now has got thy daddy's chair, 
Nae hand-cufl 'd, mizzl'd, haff-shackl'd 1 

gent. 
But, like himsel', a full free agent. 
Be sure ye tollow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest maUa' 
As meikle better as you cau. 

January i, 1789. 



rVe cam na here to view your warks 

In hopes to be mair wise, 
}ut only, lest we gang to hell. 

It may be nae surprise : 
iut when we tirl'd at your door, 

Yo-jr porter dought na hear us ; 
iae may, should we to hell's yetts come. 

Your billy Satan sair us ! 



LINES WRITTEN BY BURNS, 

WHILE ON niS DKATH BBD, TO J — If 
R — K — N, AYKSHIKB, AND FORWAKDED 
TO KIM lilMEOIATELY AFIER THB 

poet's death. 

He who of R — k— n sang, lies stiff and dead. 
And a green grassy hillock hides his head; 
Alas I alas! a devilish change indeed! 



At a meeting of the Dnmfries-shire Volunteers, 
held to commemorate the anniversary of 
Rodney's victory, April 12th, 1782, Burns 
was called upon for a Song, instead of vshich 
he delivered the following Lines : — 



II 



BURNS—POEMS. 



That we Inst, did X aej» nay, by heav'al that 

it'oT their fame it shall last while the world 

goes round. 
The next in succession. 111 give you the King, 
"Whoe'er would betraj him, on high may he 

A.nd here's, the grand fabric, oar free Consti- 

As buiU on the base of the groat EevolElioa } 
And lonfrer with Pulitics net to be cramm'd. 
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd ; 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, 
May hib son be s hangman^ and he hia first 
triaU 



THE BIEKS OF ABERFELDY. 

Bonny lassie will ye go, will ye go, wi-1 ye go, 
Bouuy lassie will ye go, to the Birks of Aber- 
feldy ? 

Now smnmer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plajs. 
Come let us spend the lightsome days 
In the birks of AberfeTdj. 

aoonie lassie, &c. 

While o'er their beads the hazels hing. 
The little birdies bljthely sing. 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c. 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's. 
The foaming stream deep -roariag fa's, 
O'erhung wi' fraprant spreading shaws. 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c 

The hoary eliflfs are crown'd wi' flowers, 
\Vhite o'er the linns the burnie pours, 
And rising, weets wi* misty showers 
The birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie labsie, && 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c* 



STAY, MY CHARMER, CAN YOU 

LEAVE ME? 
Tuae — •• An Gille dabh ciar dhubh.** 

Stay, my charmer, can yon leave me ? 

Cruel, cruel, to deceive me S 

Well ycu know how much you grieve me I 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

Cruel chzrmer, can you go ? 

* This waa written in the same measure as 
(be Birks of Abergeldy, an old Scottish song, 
ft«m which notbing is borrowed bnt the 



Pr wy love eo ill-reqnited ; 

By (he feith yon fondly piiehtea { 

By the pangs of lovers slighted i 

Do not; do not leave ine so ! 

tjo not, do not leave me so I 



8TRATnALLAI«'S LAadENT. 

Thickest night o'erhangs my dwelling t 
Howling tempests o'er me ravel 

Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 
biili surround my lonely cave I 



Crystal streamlets gently flowing. 
Busy hcunts of base mankind. 

Western breezes, softly blowing. 
Suit not my distracted mind. 



In the canse of right engaged. 
Wrongs injurious to redress. 

Honour's war we strongly waged. 
But the heavens deny'd success. 



Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us. 
Not a hope that dare attend. 

The wide world is all before us — 
But a world without a friend If 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND EOTB' 



Loud blaw the frosty breezes. 
The snaws the mountains cover ; 

Like winter on me seizes, 

Since my young Highland rover 

Where'er Le go, where'er he stray, 
May heaven be his warden : 

Return him safe to fair Stratbspej 
And bonnie Castle- Gordon! 



The birdes dowie mo: 

Shall a' be bljthely sii.girg, 

And every flower be springing. 

Sae I'll rejoice the lee-laug day. 
When by his mighty warden. 

My youth's return 'd to fair Strathspey, 
And bonnie Castle Gordon. 4. 



t Strathallan, it is presumed, was one of 
the foUowers of the young Chevalier, and is 
supposed to be lying concealed in some c^oe of 
the Highlands, after the battle of Cullodeit. 
This song was written before the year 1788. 

t The young Highland rover is supposed to 
be the yooog Chevalier, Friafie Cbailca £d* 
ward. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER 
BLOWING. 

TioK— •• M'Grigor of Ruaro's Lament. " 

Baring winds aronnd her blowing. 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, 
B) a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella straj'd depioring. 
•' Farewell, hours that late did measure 
Sunshine dajs of joy and p.easure ; 
Hail, thou gloomy uighl of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow. 

•• O'er the past too fondly wandering. 
On the hopeless future pondering j 
Chilly grief my life-blood fieezes, 
Fell aespair my fancy seiees. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing. 
Load to misery most distressing, 
O how giaaiy I'd resign thee. 
And to dark oblivion join thee '."* 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 
Tune — *' Drtiimion dubh." 

Musing on the roaring ocean, 
Which divides my love and me ; 

Wearying heaven in warm aevotiou, 
For his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 

Yielding late to nature s law, 
Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow 

Talk of him that's far awa. 

Ye whom sorrow neyer wounded, 

Y'e who never shed a tear. 
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded. 

Gaudy nay to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me : 

Downy sleep the curtain draw j 
Spirits kind, again attend me. 

Talk of him that's far awa i 



BLYTHE WAS SHE. 

Blythe, blythe, and merry was she, 
Biythe was she but ana ben ; 

Blythe by the banks of Ern, 
And biytbe in Glenturit gleo. 

By Oughtertyre grows the aik. 

On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw j 

Bat Phemie was a bonnier la^s 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 
Blythe, &c 



ihe tripped by the banks of Era, 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
Blythe, ijc 



The Highland hills I've wander 'd wid«^ 
And o'er the Lowlands 1 faae beeui 

But Phemie was the biythest lass 
That ever trode the dewy green. 
Biythe, ice 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY 
WALK. 

A Rose-bud by my early walk, 
AaowQ a coru-iiiciosea bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk. 
All ou a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled. 
In a' its crimson giory spread. 
And druoping rich the dewy head, 
It scents the early morning. 

Within the busb, her covert nest 
A little liunet fondly prest. 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 
Sae early in the morning. 

She soon shall see her tender brood. 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh greeo leaves bedew 'd. 
Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
That tents thy early morning. 

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay. 
Shall beauteous biaze upon the day. 
And biesa t:-e parent's e-. ening ray 
That watchea thy early morning.* 



WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S 
STORMS. 

Turn, —" Neil Gow's Lamentation for Abet» 
cairny. " 

Where, braving angry winter's storms. 

The lofty Ochils rise. 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes. 
As one who by sume savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonish 'd doubly marks its beam. 

With art's most polish'd blaze. 



I 



* This song was written during the winter 
of 1787. Miss J. C. daughter of a friend ti 
the Rud, is the heroine. 



UUEXS POEMS. 



Biest b« the wild, sequester "d shade, 

And blest the daj and liour. 
Where Peggy's charms i tirst snr>ey 'd, 

VVhen first I felt their power ! 
The tyrant Death, with prim conlrolf 

May seiae my fleeting breath ; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a sUouger death. 



TIBBIE, I HAR SEEN THE DAY. 
Tune — •• Invercauld's ReeL" 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day 
Ye would na been sae shy ; 

For laik o' gear ye lightly me 
Bat troth I care oa by. 

Yestreen I met yon on the moor. 
Ye spak na, but gaed by l.ke stoure; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor^ 
But fient a hair care I. 
O Tibbie, 1 hae, ice, 

I doubt na lass, but ye may think. 
Because ye hae the name o' clink, 
That ye can please me at a wink. 
Whene'er ye like to 'ry. 
O Tibbie, I hae, 6te^ 

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were cleans 
Wha follows oay saucy quean 
That looks sae proud and high. 
O Tibbie, 1 hae, ic. 

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart. 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye'U cast your head anither airt. 
And answer him fu' dry. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But if he hae the name o' gear. 

Ye 11 fasten to him like a brier, 

Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear. 

Be better than the kye, 

Tibbie, I hae, ^c 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my adyice. 
Your daddie's gear maks )ou sae nice : 
Ttie deil a ane wad spier jour price. 
Were ye as poor as L 
O Tibbie, I hae, JScc 

There lives a lass in yonder park* 

I would na gie her under sark. 

For thee wi ' a thy thousand mark ; 

Ye need na look sae higiu 

O Tibbie, I hae, &c 



CLARINDA. 



Clariada. mistress of my soul. 



We part, — but by these preciooa drope. 

That fiU thy lovely eyes I 
No ^iher light shail guide my steps. 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex. 

Has biest my glorious day : 
And shall a gl.mmeriiig planet fig 

3Iy worship to its ray ? 



THE DAY BETURXS, MY BOSO 
BURNS. 

Tune — «' SeTenth of November. " 

The day returns, my bosom burns. 

The blissful oay we twa did meet, 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd. 

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
Tbau kingly robes, than crowns and globes 

Heayen gave me more, it made thee m.M 

While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature ought of pleajiure give ! 
While joys above my mind can move. 

For thee, and thee alone, I live ! 
When that grim foe of life below. 

Comes ia between to make us part ; 
The iron hand that breaks our band. 

It bleaks my bliss — it breaks my heart. 



THE LAZY MIST. 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of 

hill. 
Concealing the course of the dark winding 

How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, ap 

As autumn to winter resigns the pale year. 
The forests are leafless, the meadows fj-e 

brown. 
And all the gay foppery cf summer is flown ; 
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse. 
How quick time is flying, how keen fate pur- 
How long I have liy'd — but how much liv'd 



What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn. 
How foolish, or worse, 'till our summit 

gain'd 1 
And downward, how weaken'd, how darken 

how pain'd I 
This life's not worth having with all it t 



DUMOND CABINET LIBRARY 



O, TVERB I ON PARNASSUS HILL. 

Tune — «« Mj Ioto is lost to me. '» 

O were I on Paraassas bill t 
Or had of Helicon my fill ; 
Tbat I might catch poetic skill. 

To sing how dear 1 lore thee. 
But Nilh uiauu be my muse's well, 
My muse maun be thy bomiie sel* ; 
On Corsiucou I'll glower and spell. 

And write uow dear I love thee. 



Then come, sweet 


muse. 


insp 


re my laj t 


For a' the li-e-lon 






day, 


I couldna sing, I c 


ouldn 


isay 




How much, hov 


dear, 


liu 


•e thee. 


I see thee dancing 








Thy waist sae jmi^ 


. thy 


inr^s 


sae clean. 


Thy tempting lips 


thy r 


gu.s 




By heaven and earth i iove thee 1 



\ breast iiitiame ; 
And aye 1 muse and s iig thy name : 

I only live ty lo\e thee. 
Tho' L were doom'd to wander on, 
Beyond the sea, beyond tne sun, 
'Till my last, weajy sand was run ; 

'Till ihen — aiici then 1 love thee. 



I LOVE MY JEAN. 
Tune—'* Mas Admiral Gordon's Strathspey.' 

Of a* the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west. 
For there the buanie lassie lives. 

The latsie 1 lo'e best: 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row. 

And moaie a hill between; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is eTer wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

1 hear her charm the air: 
There '» not a bonnie flower that spring 

By fountain, shaw, or green. 
There's not a bocnie bird that sili§s. 

Bat minds me o' my Jeau. 



THE BRAES O* BALL0CH3IYLE, 

The Calrine woods were yellow seen, , 
The tiowers decayed on Catrine Jee,* 

Nae lav 'rock sang on hillock green. 
But nature sicken'd on the e'e. 

Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersei' in beauty's bloom the while^ 



• Catrine, in Ayrshire, the seat of Dagald 
Stewart, Esq. Professor of Moral Philosophy 
in the Uaiversity of Edinburgh. Ballochmyle, 
formerly the seat of Sir John Whitefoord, now 
of Alexander, Esq. (ISOO.) 



Now in your wintry beds, ye flowers, , 

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; f 
Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers. 

Again ye'll charm the vocai air. 
But here, alas ! fur me nae mair 

Shall birdie cuarm, or floweret smile; 
Fareweel the bonnie banks oi Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballocbmyk t 



WILLIE BREWD A PECK 0*' 
RIAUT. 

O "Willie brew'd a peck o' mant. 
And Kob and Al.au cam to pree 

Three biyther hearts, ttiat lee lang night. 
Ye wad na find in Chribteudie. 

«• We are na fou, we're nae that fon. 
But jubt a drappie in our e'e ; 

The cock may craw, the day may daw. 
And aye we'll taste the barley bree.'' 

Here are we met, three merry boys, 
'1 lirep merry b^ys 1 trow are wej 

And nioii) a night we've merry beeOf 

Aud mony niair »e hope to be 1 

\V e are ua fou, 6ta» 

It is the moon, I ken ber born, 

ihal's blinking lu the lift sae high . 
She shines sae bright to wyle us hamv. 
Hul by my troth she "11 wait a we«S' 
j We are nae fou. && 

first shall rise to gang awa, 
cuckold. co«ard loun is he I 
'\^Tia hrst beside his chair shall fa ,^ 



THE BLUE-EYED LASSI&f 

r gaed a waefn ' gate yestreen, 

A gate, 1 fear, 1 'U dearly rue t 
I gat luy death frae twa sweet e'e^ 

'I'wa lovely e'en o' bonnie blue. 
'Twas not her golden ringlets brigm 

Her lips lite roses wat wi' dew. 
Her heaving bosom, lily-white — 

It was her e'en sae bonnie blae. 

She talk'd, she smiled, my heart she wyl'df 
She charmed my soul 1 wist na bow ; 

.Vnd aye the stound, the deadly wound. 
Cam frae her e'en sae bunnie blue. 



I 



t Willie, who '«brew'd a pecko' maut,*» 
was Mr William Nicol ; and Rob and Allan, 
our poet, and his friend, Allan Waster- 
These three honest fellows — all men of, 
uncommon talents, are now Wider the Vast' 



BURNS.— POEMS. 



But spare to epeaV, and tpare to speed { 
She'll aiblins listea to my tow : 

Should she refuse, I»ll lay my dead 
To her twa e'en saa bonny blue. * 



THE BANKS OP NITH. 
Tune— "Kobie Donna Gorach." 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea. 

Where royal cities stand; 
But sweeter flows the Nith to me, 

Where Cummins ance had high command ; 
When shall I see that honour'd land, 

Ihat winding stream 1 love so dear J 
Wust wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here. 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales. 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bkom ; 
How sweetly winu thy sloping dales 

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! 
Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom. 

Far from thy bonaie banks and braes. 
Way there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! 



JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

When we were lirst acquent; 
Tour locks were like the raven. 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is beid, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow 

' ■ • ■ my jo. 



John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature 
first began 

To try her canny hand, John, her master- 
work was man : 

And yon atnang them a', John, sae trig fras 
' -o toe. 



John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my first 

And ye na think it strange, John, tho' I ca* 

ye trim and neat ; 
Tho* some folk say ye 're anld, John, I never 

think ye so, 
But I think ye're aye the same to me, John 

Anderson, my jo. 



John Anderson n 



John Anderson, my jo, JohD« 

We clamb the hill thegiihor 
And niony a cantv day, John, 

We've had wi' ane aniiher. 
Now we maun totter down, John 

But hand in hand we'll go: 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. f 



John Anderson, 

bairns' bi 

And yet my deii 

And sae are je i 



ny jo, John, we've seen our 
John Anderson, I'm happj 
mine, John — I'm sure ye '11 



Tho' the days are pane, that we have seen, 
John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, Johii, what pleasiira 

does it gie 
To see sae mony sprouts, John, spring op 

'tween you and mj. 
And ilka lad and lass, John, in onr footsteps 

Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John An- 
derson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were 

hrst acquent. 
Your locks were like the raven, your bonnia 

But now your head's tnrned bald, John, youi 
locks are like the snaw, 

Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John An- 
derson, my jo. 



* The heroine of this song was Miss J. of 
Lochmaben- This lady, now Mrs R. after 
residing some time in Liverpool, is settled 
with her husband in New York, North Amer- 
ica. 

+ In the first volume of a collection entitled. 
Poetry, Original and Selected, printed by 
Brash and Reid of Glasgow, this song is given 
as follows ; 

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, IMPROVED. 

BT BOBE&T BURNS. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what 

you mean, 
To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up 80 

late at «'en, 
Y«'U blear out a* your e'en, John, and why 

should yon do so. 
Gang sooner to your bed at e'en, John Ander- 

•on, m; jo. 



John Andi 
And 



t)on that year man 

bring us to our last 

But let nae that aflright us, Johi 



y jo, John, frae year to year 
come John, will 
onr hearts 



John Anderson, my jo, John, we clamb th« 

hill thegither. 
And mony a canty day, John, we've had wi* 

Ntwwe maun totter down, John, but hand 

in hand we'll go. 
And we'll sleep thegither at the foot, Joha 

Anderson, my jo. 

The stanxa with which this song, inserted 
by Messrs Brash and Reid, begins, is ths 
ehorus of the old song under this title; and 
though perfectly suitable to that wicked bat 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



I'm thinking wi* sic a braw fellow. 

In poortith 1 might mak a fen : 
What care I in riches to wallow. 

If I maunna marrj Tarn Ulea. 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, 

*• Gude day to jou, brute," he conces ben : 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller. 
But whea will he dance like Tarn Glen. 

My minnie does constantly deave me. 
And bids me beware o' young men ; 

They Hatter, she says, to deceive me, 
But wha cau thiuk sae o' Tarn Glen ? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
Ue'U gie me gude huuder marks ten : 

But, if it's ordain'd I mauu tak him, 
O wha will I get like Tarn Gleu ? 

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing. 
My heart to my mou gied a steu ; 

For thrice I drew aue without failing. 
And thrice it was written Tarn Glen. 

The last Hallowe'en I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken 

His likeness cam up the house staukin, 
And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen I 

Come counself dear tittie, don't tarry ; 



The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Gleu. 



MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 

O meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty. 
And meikle thinks my iuve o' my kia ; 

But little thinks my Iuve I ken brawlie. 
My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 

It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 
It's a' for the hinney he'll cherish the bee. 



witty ballad, it has no accordance with the 
strain of delicate and tender sentiment of this 
improved song. In regard to the live other 
additional stanzas, though they are in the 
spirit of the two stanzas that are uaquebtiou- 
ably our bard 's, yet every reader of discern- 
ment will see they are by an inferior hand ; 
and the real author of them ought neither to 
have given ihem, nor suffered them to be given, 
to the world, as the production of Burns. |f 
there were no other mark of their spurious ori- 
gin, the latter half of the third line in the 
seventh stanza, our hearts were ne'er our foe, 
would be proof sufficient. Many are the iu- 
Btauces iu which our bard has adopted defec- 
tive rhymes, but a single instance cannot be 
E reduced, in which, to preserve the rhyme, he 
as given a feeble thought, in false grammar. 
These additional stanzas are not however 
wuhout merit, and they may serve to prolong 
the pleasure which every person of taste must 
feel, from listeairg to a most happy union of 
teautiful music with moral senumeuts that 
•n •luguiarlj iatereatiug. 



My laddie's sae meikle ia Iutc wP the dUar, 
He canna hae lave to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' love's an arle penny. 

My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy; 
But an* ye be crafty, 1 am cunnin, 

Sae ye wi' anitber your fortune maun try, 
Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood. 

Ye "re like to the bark o' yon rotten tree. 
Ye '11 slip frae me like a knotiess thread. 

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor ma. 



THEN GUIDWIFE COUNT THE 
LA WIN. 

Gane is the day and mirk's the night. 
But we'll ne'er stray for faute o' light. 
Fur ale and braudj 's stars and moon. 
And bluid red vviue's the risiu sun. 

Then guidwife count the lawin, the lawln, the 

Then guidwife count the lawiof and bring a 



There's wealth an' ease for gentlemen. 
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen i 
Bat here we're a' in ae accord, 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 
Then guidwife count, &c. 

My coggie is a haly pool, 
That heals the wounds o' care -u^ doot , 
And pleasure is a wanton (rout. 
An' ye drink it a' ye'U find him out. 
Then guidwife count. &c. 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO 
WI' AN AULD MAN. 

What can a young lassie, what shall a young 
lassie. 
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld 

Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my 



[e's always compleening frae morning to 

He hosts an he hirples the weary day laug, 
[e's doy'lt and he's dozin, his bluid ii is 



He bums and he hankers, be foets and he 
cankers ; 

I never can please him do a' that I can ; 
He's peevish and jealous of a' the youug fel- 
lows, 

O, dool on the day, I met wi' an' auld man S 

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan { 

II cross him, and wrack him, until I hear. 

break him. 
And then his auld brass will buy m« a MW 



I 



BURNS. -POEMS. 



THE BONNIE WEE THING. 

Bonnie wee thin^, cannie wee thing, 
LoTel; we« thing, was thoa iniae ; 

I wad wear thee in my bosom. 
Lest m; jewel I should tine. 

Wistfially I look and languish. 
In that bonnie face of thine ; 

And my heart it stounds wi' anguish. 
Lest my wee thing be ua mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty. 

In ae constellation shine J 
To udore thee is my duty. 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine t 
Bonnie wee, &c. 



O, FOE ANE AND TWENTY TAM. 
Tune—'* The Mondiwort." 

An* O, for ane and twenty, Tam ! 

An' hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tam ! 
I'll learn my kin a rattiin sang. 

An' I saw ane and twenty, Tam. 

They snool me sair, and hand me down. 
And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ; 

But three short years will soon wheel roun% 
And then comes ane and twenty, Tam. 
An' O. for ane, &c. 

A gleib o' Ian*, a clant o' gear. 
Was left me by my auntie. Tarn ; 

At kith or kin I need na spier. 
An' I saw ane and twenty, Tam. 
An' O, for ane, &c. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy eoof, 
Tho' I mysel hae plenty, Tam ; 

But hear'st thou laddie, there's my Ioof» 
I 'la thine at ane and twenty, lam I 
An' O for ane, &c. 



BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. 

O Leeze me on my spinning wheel, 
O leeze me on my rock and reel ; 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien. 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me down and sing and spin. 
While laigh descends the simmer sun. 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal— 
O leeze me on my spinning wheel. 

On ilka hand the burnies trot. 

And meet below thy theekit cot; 

The scented birk and hawthorn white. 

Across the pool their arms unite. 

Alike to screen the birdie 's uest. 

And little fishes' caller rest : 

The sua blinks kindly in the biel'. 

Where, blythe I turn my spinning wheel. 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, ,' 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale: 
The lintwhites in the hazel brae9| 
Delighted, rival itb«r'e lajfs • 



The craik amang the claver hay. 
The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley. 
The swallow jinking round my shielf 
Amuse me at mj spinning wheel. 

Wi' sraa* to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
O wha wad leave this humble state. 
For a* the pride of a' the great J 
Amid their flairing, idle toys. 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys. 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel, 
Of Bessy at her spinuixig wheel. 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 

In simmer when the hay was mawn. 
And corn waved green in ilka field. 

While claver blooms white o'er the lea. 
And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 

Blythe Bessie in the milking sliiel. 
Says, I'll be wed come o*t what willj 



Its ye hae wooers mony a ane, 

And, lassie, ye're but young, ye ken ; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, 

A routhie butt, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 
Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen. 

It's plenty beets the luver's lire. 

For Johnnie o* the Buskie-glen, 

He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye. 
He has nae luve to spare for me : 

But blythe's the blink o' Uobie's e'e. 
And weel I wat he lo'es me dear: 

Ae blink o' him 1 wad na gie 
Fur Buskie-glen and a' his gear. 

O thoughtless lassie, life's a fanght. 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; 
But aye fu' han't is fechtin' best, 

A hungry care's an unco care ; 
But some will spend, and some will Epan« 

And wilfu* folk maun hae their will j 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair. 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yilL 

O gear will buy me rigs o' land. 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
Bat the tender heart o' leesome luve. 

The gowd and siller canna buy t 
We may be poor, Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and love brings peace and joj. 

What mair hae queens upon a throne P 



FAIR ELIZA. 
__ A GAEIdC AIR. 

Turn again, thoa fair Eliza, 
Ae kiud blink before we part, 

Rew on thy despairing lover ! 
Caaiit thou break his faitbfu' b< 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Turn again^ thoa fair Eliza; 

If to love tb; heart deuies, 
^r pity bide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's idnd disguise I 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wfeck bis peace for eTer, 

VVha for thine wad gladly die I 
While the life beats m my bosom. 

Thou shalt mix in ilka ibroe: 
Turn again, thuu lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom^ 

In the pride o' sinny nojn ; 
Not the liitle sporting fairy. 

All beneath ibe simuier moon; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens on bis e'e. 
Kens the pieasure, feels the rapture 

That thy presence gies to me. 



THE POSIE. 

O Luve will Tenture in, where it daor na well 

be seen, 
O luve will venture in where wisdom ance has 

Jiat I wiW down yon river rove, amang the 
wood sae greeu. 
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pa'f the firstling o' the 

And I will pu* the pink, the emblem o' my 

dear. 
For ihe'i the pink o' womankind, and blooms 

wilhuut a peer : 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll pu' the budding rose when Phffibiis peeps 

For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie 

The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchang- 
ing blue: 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 



The hawthorn I will pu', 
Where, like an aged man 



,' its locks o* siller 
t stands at break 



But the songster's nest within the bush I 
winna tak away i 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

rhe woodbine I wiM pu' when the e'ening star 

And the diamond-draps o' dew shall be her 

een sae clear ; 
The Tiolet's for modesty which weel she fa's 
to wear: 
And a' to be a posie to my aia dear Majr. 



I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o* 

luve. 
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear 

by a' above, 
That to my latest draught o* life the band shah 

And this will be a posie to my ain dear Maj. 



THE BANKS 0' DOON. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

Mow can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 
How can ^e chaui, ye li'.tie birds. 

And 1 sae weary fu ' o' care 1 
Thoa '11 break my heart thou warbling bird. 

That wantons thro' the dowering thorn : 
Thou minds me a' departed joys. 

Departed never to return. 

Oft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve. 

And, foadly, sae did 1 o mine. 
AVi' i.gbisume heart 1 pu'd a rose, 

Fu ' sweet upon its thorny tree j 
And my fause lover stole ray rose. 

But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me 



SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 
The spot ihey ca'd it Linkumdoddie ; 

Willie was a wabster gucie, 

Cou'd siown a clue wi' ony bodie ; 

He bad a wife was dour and din, 
O Tinkler Madgie was her mither; 



She has an e'e, she has but ane. 
The cat has iwa the very colour , 

Five rusty teeth, forbye a slump, 
A clapper tongue wad deave a miller; 

A whiskiii beard about her mou. 

Her nose and chin they threaten ither ; 
Sic a wife, itc 

She's bow-bough'd, she's hein shinn'd, 
Ae limpiii leg a hand-breed shorter : 

She's twisted right, she's twisted left. 
To balance fair in ilka quarter ; 

She has a hump upon her breast. 
The twin o' that upon her shouther ; 
Sio a wife, ice 

Auld baudrins by the ingle tits. 

And w i ' her loof her face a-washin ; 

But Willie's wife is nae sap trig. 

She dighie her grunzie wi' a busbiomt 

Her walie nieves like midden cttta. 
Her face wad fyle the Logaa waler| 



BURNS.— POEM& 



GLOOMY DECEMBEiL 



Sad was the parting thou makes n 

Parting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er I 
Fond lovers parting is sweet painful pleasure, 

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour ; 
But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever, 

Is auguibh uumiugled and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing ihe forest, 

'Till the last leaf o' the summer is tlown. 
Such is the tempest has shaken ni) bosom, 

Since viy last hope and last comfort is gone; 
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
For sad was the parting thou makes me re- 
member. 

Parting wi' Nancy, Oh, ne'er to meet mair. 



EVAN BANKS. 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires. 
The sun from India's shore retires; 
To Ev;:n banks, with terap'rate ray. 
Home of my joutb, it leads the day. 
Oh ! banks to me for ever dear ! 
Oh; stream whose murmur* still I hear! 
All, all my hopes of bliss reside, 
"Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 

And she, in simple beauty dress'd, 
■\VhObe iinase lives within my breast; 
Who trembling heard my piercing sigh. 
And lang pursued me v.ilh hsr eye ! 
Does sire, with henri uiiclianged as mine. 
Oft ill uie vocal bowers recline ? 
Of where yon grot o'erhaugs the tide. 
Rinse while the Evan seeks the Cl^de, 

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound I 

Ye lavish woods that wave around. 

And o'er Ihe sirearu your shadows throw. 

Which sweeliy winds so far below ; 

What secret charm to mem'ry brings. 

All that on Evan's border springs > 

Sweet banks; je bloom by Marj's side ; 

Biesb'd stream, she views thee haste to Clyde. 

Can all Ihe wealih of India's coast 

Atone for years ia absence lost ! 

Return, ye moments of delight, 

>V ith richer treasures bless my sight I 

Swift from this desert let me part. 

And fly to meet a kindred heart ! 

Nor more may aughi m> steps divide 

From that dear sueam which flows to Clyde. 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE. 



Slialt ever he my dearie. 
Only thou, I swear aad voVy . 
Shall ever be mj dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'cs me : 
Or, if thou wilt ua be my ain, 
a thou'lt refuse me : 



If it 



a be. 



Thou, for thine, may choose met 
Let me, lassie, quickly die. 

Trusting that thou lo'es me, ^ 
Lassie, let me quickl\ die. 
Trusting that thoa lo'es me. 



SHE'S FAIR AND PAUSE. 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 

I lo'ed her meJkle and laiig ; 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my hearty 

And I may e'en gae hang, 
jf oam in with routh o' gear. 



And I h 



s but V 



rid's 



Sae let the bonuie lass gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love. 

To this be never blind, 
Pfae ferlie 'tis tho' tickle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind : 
woman, lovely woman, fair ! 
\.n angel form's faun to ih\ share, 
'Twad been o'er meikle lo gieu thee mair. 



AFTON WATER. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy greea 

V gently, I'll sing thee a song ia thy 

Afy Marj 's asleep by thy murmuring stream. 
Flow gently, sweet AJfton, dinturb not her 

Thou stock -ive whose echo resounds thro' the 

glei, 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny 

den, 
Thou green-crested lapwing thy screamia 

forbear, 
I charge "ou disturb not my slumbering fair. 

flow lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring 

hills. 
Far marked with courses of clear winding 



How pleasant thy banks and green valley be- 
low, 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses 



Wilt thou be my dearie ; 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 
O wilt tiiou let me cheer thee ; 

By the treasure of my soul, 
And mat's the love I biear thee : 

I (wear aod tow, that only thou 



Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it 

giidee. 
And wiudf bj the oot where my Mary rwidet* t 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 

How wanton thy watdTS her snowy feet lave. Kings and nations, swith aw*f 
Ah gathering sweet flowerata ahe stems thy Reit randies 1 diso wo j«i 
clear ware. 

Flow gently, sweet Afion, among thy green 

braes, FOR THE SAKE OF SOHKBO 

jiitly, sweet river, the theme c " 

My heart is sair, I dare na tell. 

My heart is sair for somebody | 
[ could wake a winter night 
For the sake of somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh- hey ! for somebody ! 
I conld range the world around* 
For the sake of somebody. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous loT«» 

O sweetly smile on somebody 1 
Frae iika dangtr keep him free. 
And send me safe my somebody. 
Oh-hon : for somebody 1 
Oh-hey ! for somebody 1 
I wad do— -what wad I njt 
For the sake of somebody I 



BONNIE BELL. 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, 

Aim surly Winter grimly flies : 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters ; 

A;id bonnie blue are the sunny skies ; 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the 
morning, 

* ling gilds the ocean's swell ; 



AUc, 



And I rejoice ii 



;s joy in the si 



y bonnie Bell. 



Qing, 



The flowery Spring leads sunny Summer, 

And yellow Autumn presses near. 
Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, 

'Till smiling Spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing. 

Old Time and Nature iheir changes tell. 
But never ranging, still unchanging 

I adore my bonnie Bell. 



THE GALLANT WEAVER. 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea. 
By mony a flow'r and spreading tree. 
There lives a lad, the lad for me. 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh I had wooers anght or nine, 
Thej gied me rings and ribbons fine ; 
And i was fear'd my heart would tine. 
And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band 
To gie the lad that has the land, 
But to my heart I'll add ray hand. 
And give it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; 
While bees delight in opening flowers ; 
While corn grows green in simmer showers, 
i'll love my gallant weaver.* 



LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE, 

Louis, what reck I by thee. 

Or Geordie on his ocean ; 
Dyvoar beggar louns to me, 

I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 



« editioai sailor is snbstitated for 



THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNBSSL 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e 'en and morn she cries, alas ! 

And aye the saut tear blins her e'ei 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu' day it was to me ; 
For there I lost my father dear. 

My father dear and brethren three. 

Their winding sheet the bloody clay. 

Their graves are growing g; een to see } 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever bless 'd a woman's e'e ! 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
For monie a heart thou hast made sair. 

That ne 'er did wrong to thine or thee. 



A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THB 
DEATH OF HER SON. 

TuTie — '• Finlayston House. *' 

Fate gave the word, the arrow spedf 

Ana pierced my darling's heart : 
And with him all the joys are fled 

'e can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops* 

In dust dishoBour'd laid : 

fell the pride of all my hopes. 

My bge's future shade. 

The mother linnet in the brake, 
wails her ravished young ; 
So I for my lost darling's sake. 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal bUm* 

Now fond I bare my breast, 
O do thou kindly lay me Sow 

With him I lore at rest : 



BURNS.— POEMS. 



O MAY, THY MORN. 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae Eweett 
A* the mirk night o' December ; 

For sparkling -was the rosy wine. 
And private was the chamber : 

And dear was she I darena name, 
Dut 1 will aye remember. 
And dear, itc 

And here's to them, that like ourseli 

Can push about the jorum ; 
And here's to them that wish us weel. 

May a' that's gnde watch o'er them ; 
And here's to them, we darena tellf 

The dearest o' the quorum. 
And bere'i to* && 



O what ye wha's in yon town» 

Ye see the e'ening sun upon. 
The fairest dame's in yon town. 

That e'eniug sun is shining on. 

Now haply down yon gay green shaw. 
She wanders by yon spreading tree ; 

How blest ye flow 'rs that round her blaw, 
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e. 

How blest ye birds that round her sing, 
And welcome in the blooming year. 

And doubly welcome be the spring. 
The season to my Lucy dear. 

The sun blinks blythe on yon town. 
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ; 

But my delight in yon town. 
And dearest bliss is Lucy fair. 

Without my love, not a' the charms 
O' paradise could yield me joy ; 

But gie me Lucy in my arms. 
And welcome Lapland's dreary sky. 

My cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Tho' raging winter rent the air ; 

And she a lovely little flower. 
That I wad tent and shelter there. 

sweet is sh* in yon town, 

Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon ; 
A fairer than's in yon town. 
His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate has sworn my foe. 
And suffering I am doom 'd to bear ; 

1 eareless quit aught else below. 

But spare me, spare me, Lucy dear. 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er ncpart. 

And she — as fairest is her form , 
She has the truest kindest he<iii.« 



• The heroine of this song, Mrs 0. (for 
If Miss L. J.^ died lately in Lisbon. This 
OHMt aoromplished and most lovelv woman, 
WM woriby of Ihii btautiful strain ot seutibiU 



A RED, RED ROSE. 

O my love's like a red, red rose. 
That's newly sprung in June, 

my love's like the melody 
Thai's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonny lass, 

So deep in )ove am I ; 
And I will love thee still my dear, 

'Till a* the seas gang dry. 

'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
And the rocks melt wr the sun ; 

1 will love thee still, my dear. 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only love. 
And fare thee weel a while ! 

And I will come again my love, 
Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



As I stood by yon roofless tower. 

Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air< 
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bowei 

And tells the midnight moon her care. 

The winds were laid, the air was stiU, 
The stars they shot along the sky ; 

The fox was howling on the hiU, 
And the distant echoing glens reply. 

The stream adown its hazelly path. 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's. 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, f 
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's t 

The canld blue north was streaming forth 
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ; 

Athort the lift they start and shift. 
Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 

By heedless chance I tnrn'd mine eyes,^ 
And by the moon-beam, shook, to 8e« 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane. 
His darin look had daunted me ; 

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain. 
The sacred posie^Liberty ! 



ity, which will convey some impression of hef 
attractions to other generations. The song ii 
written in the character of her husband, as th« 
reader will have observed by our bard's letter 
to Mr Syme inclosing this song. 

+ Variation. To join yon river on (h« 

Strath. 

f Variation. 

Now looking over firth andfanld. 
Her horn the pale-faced Cynthia rear "dj 
When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, 
A stero and stalnart ghaisl.appcai'd. 

Q 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRAST. 



He soDg wi' joy bis former daj, 
He « eeplng wail'd his latter time 

But »hai he said it was nae plav, 
1 wiuna veuiure'l in my rhymes.* 



COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS 



MR WILLIAM TYTLER, 

WITH THE PKESEJsT OF THB BARD'S 
PICTITRB. 

Bevered defender of beauteous Stuart, 

Of Stuart a name once respected, 
A name, ^ hich to iove was the mark of a true 

But cow 'tis despised and neglected : 

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my 
eye, 
Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a 
Bigh, 
Still mere, if that wand'rer were royah 

My fathers that name hare rerer'd on a 



That name should he scoffingly slight it. 
Still in prayers for King George I most heart- 



Their title's avow'd by the country. 
But why of that epocha make such a fuss, 



• This poem, an imperfect copy of -which 
vaa printed in Johnson's Museum, is here 
given from the poet's MS. with his last cor- 
rections. The scenery so finely described is 
taken from nature. The poet is supposed to 
be musing by night on the banks of the river 
Cluden, and by the ruins of Lincluden-Abbey, 
founded in the twelfth century, in the reign of 
Malcolm IV. of whose present situation the 
reader may find some account ia Pennant's 
Tour in Scotland, or Grose's Antiquities ef 
tha.t division of the island. Such a time and 
such a place are well fitted for holding con- 
Terse with aerial beings. Though this poem 
has a political bias, jet it may be presumed 
that no reader of taste, whaterer his opinions 
may be, would forgive it being omitted. Our 
poet's prudence suppressed the song of Liberty, 
perhaps fortunately for his reputation. It 
may be questioned whether, even in the 're- 
Bouroes of his genius, a strain of poetry could 
have been found worthy of the grasdeiir and 
•clemoit/ of this jprepaxiUiou, 



Bat loyaltyi trace i we're ea daiigeruai 

ground, 
Who knows how the fashions may alter. 
The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty soacdt 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard» 
A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 

But accept it, good sir, as a mask of regard, 
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your 

And ushers the long dreary night : 
But you, like the star that athwart gilds th« 
sky. 
Your course to the latest is bright. 

My muse jilted me here, and turned a corner 
on me, and 1 have not gut again into her good 
graces. Do me the justice to believe me sin- 
cere in my grateful remembrance of the many 
civilities you have honoured me with since X 
came to Edinburgh, and in assuring you that I 
have the honour to be. 

Revered Sir, 
Your obliged and very humble Serranf, 
R. BURKS. 
Edinburgh, 1787. 



CALEDONIA. 

Tune — *• Caledonian Hunt's Delight. " 

There was once a day, but old Time then 
was young. 
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line. 
From some of your northern deities sprung, 
(Who knows not that brave Caledoniar's di. 
vine?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain. 
To bunt, or to pasture, or do what she 
would : 
Her heavenly relaticns there fixed her reign. 
And pledg'd her their godheads to warraul 
it good. 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war. 

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew . 
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly 

'• 'Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter 
shall rue!" 
With tillage or pasture at times she would 
sport. 
To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling 
corn; 
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort. 
Her darling amusement, the hounds and the 
born. 

Long quiet she reigned ; *till thitherward 

steers 
^A. flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand t* 
Repeated, successive, for many long years. 
They darken 'd the air, and they plander'd 

the laud i 



I 
I 



BURNS— POEMS. 



9(9 



l^eir pouQCes were mardert and terror their 

Thej'd conquer *d and ruin'd a world be- 

She took to her hilla and her arrows let fly, 
The daring invaders thej fled or they died. 

The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the 
north. 
The scourge of the seas, and the dread of 
the shore ; * 
The wild Scandinavian hoar issued forth 

To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore:f 
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury pre- 
vail'd. 
No arts could appease them, nor arms could 
repel.; 
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail 'd, 
As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie 
telL i 

The Cameleon-savage disturb 'd her repose. 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife ; 
Provoked beyond bearing, at last she arose, 

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his 
life : § 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguia'd the Tweed's sil- 
ver flood ; 
But taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 

Thus bold, independent, unconquer^d and free. 
Her bright course of glory for ever shall 
run : 

For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : 

Rectangled triangle, the figure we'll choose. 
The upright is Chance, and old Time is the 

But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse; 
Then ergo she'll match them, and match 
them always, j) 



HE FOLLOWING POEM 

WAS WHITTKN TO A OBNTLBMAN WHO 
HAD SBNT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OT- 
FBRBD TO CONTINUB IT jaSB 0» BX- 
PEVS& 

Rind sir, I've read your paper through, 
And faith, to me, 'twas really new I 
How goess'd ye, sir, what maist I wanted I 
This mony a day I've grain 'd and ganated. 
To ken what French mischief was brewin' j 
Or what the drnmlie Dutch were doia' ; 



* The Saxons. f The Danes. 

^ Two famous battles, in which the Danes 
or Norwegians were defeated. 

§ The Highlanders of the Isles. 

y This singular figure of poetry, taken from 
tile mathematics, refers to the famous proposi- 
tion of Pythagoras, the 47th of Euclid. In a 
right-angled triangle, the square of the hypo- 
ttienase is always equal ' " " 



That vile donp-skelper, Emperor Joseph, 

If Yenas yet bad got his nose ofiF j 

Or how the coUieshangie works 

Atween the Russian and the Turks ; 

Or if the Swede, before he halt. 

Would play anither Charles the Twalt ! 

If Denmark, ony body spako't ; 

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't; 

How cut-throat Prussian blades were hinsin' | 

How libbet Italy was singin ; r 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swisa« 

Were sayin or takin ought amiss t 

Or how our merry lads at hame. 

In Britain's court kept up the game • 

How royal George, the Lord leuk o er him I 

Was managing St Stephen's quorum ; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was livin. 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 

How daddie Burke the plea was eookin. 

If Warren Hastings' neck was yeokin ; 

How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd. 

Or if bare a— s yet were tax'd ; 

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls. 

Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls | 

If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, 

Was threshin still at hizzies' tails. 

Or if he was growin oughtlins donser. 

And no a perfect kintra cooser 

A' this and mair I nev«r heard of ; 
And, but for yon, I might despair'dof. 
So gratefu', back your news I send you. 
And pray, a' guid things may attend yon I 

Ellisland, Monday Moraing, 1790. 



ON.PASTORAL POETBY. 

Hail Poesie ! thou nymph reserved J 

In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved 

Frae common sense, or sunk enerved 

'Maag heaps o' clavers | 
And och I o'er aft thy joys hae starved, 

'Mid a* thy favours I 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang. 
While loud the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the Sbepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage } 

lu Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
Eschylus' pen Will 3hakspeare drives; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They 're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches | 
Squire Pope but busks his skinlin patches 

O' heathen tatters: 
I pass by banders, nameless wretches. 

That ape their betters. 



In this braw age o' wit and lear, 

^^. Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mail 

quarei of the , Blaw sweetly in iu native air 

I AndnualgrMtj 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



And wi* di« far>famed Grecian share 
A rival place f 

Yes I there is ane ; a Scottish eallan ! 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan I 
Thoa need na jouk behint the ballan, 

A chiel so clerer ; 
The teeth o' time njaj ^naw Tamtallan, 

But thoa's for ever. 

Thoa paints anld nature to the nines. 

In thj sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae gowdin stream thro* myrtles twines. 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Uer griefs will teU ! 

In gowany glens thy bnrnie strays. 
Where bonaie lasses bleach their claes ; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws or braes, 

Wi* hawthorns gray. 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are natnre's sel ; 

Nae bombast spates o* nonsense STvell ; 

Nae snap conceits, bnt that sweet spell 

O* witchin' love, 
That charm that can the strongest quell. 

The sternest move. 



THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, 

BET WEEN THB DUKB 09 ARGYJiK AND 

THB BARh OK MA&. 

•* O cam ye here the fight to shnn. 
Or herd the sheep wi* me, man I 
Or were ye at the Sberra-muir, 

And did the battle see, man ?" 
•• I saw the battle sair and teugh. 
And reekiu-red ran moaie a sheagh, 
My heart for fear gae sough for sough. 
To bear the thuds, and see the cluds 
O' clans (rae woods, in tartan duds, 
Wha glaum*d at kingdoms three, man. 

The red-coat lads wi' black cockades, 
To meet them were na slaw, man ; 

They msh'd and push'd, and bluid oatgush*d, 
And mony a bouk did fa*, man t 

The great Argyle led on his files, 



clash*d. 

And thro' they dash*d, and hew'd and 
smash'd. 
Till fey men died awa, man. 

But had you seen the philibegs. 

And skyrin tartan trews, man. 
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, 

And covenant true blues, man ; 
In lines extended lang and large. 
When bayonets opposed the targe. 
And thousands hastened to the charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath, 
Prew blades o' death, till out o* breath, 
^ They fled like frighted does, man. " 



«• O how deil Tam can that be itt»T 

The chase gaed frae the north, man } 
I saw myself, they did pnrsue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man ; 
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight. 
They took the brig wi' a' their might. 
And straight to Stirling wing'd their flight f 
But, cursed lot I the gates were shut j 
And mony a hunted poor red-coat 
For fear aniaist did swarf^ man. " 

• * My sister Kate came up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man : 
She swoor she saw some rebels ran, 

Frae Perth uuto Dundee, man ; 
Their left-hand general had nae ekilly 
The Angus lads had nae good will 
That day their neebor's blood to spill ; 
For fear by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes. 

And so it goes, you see* man. " 

•* They've lost some gallant gentlemen^ 
Amang the Highland clans, man ; 

I fear my Lord Panmure is slain. 
Or fallen in whiggish hands, man ; 

Now wad ye sing this double fight. 

Some fell for wrang, and some for right ; 

But mony bade the world gude-night ; 

Then ye may tell, how pell and mell. 

By red claymores, and muskets' knell, 

Wi* dying yeU, the tories fell. 
And whigs (o hell did flee, man."* 



SKETCH, 

NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

TO MBS DUNLOP. 

This day. Time winds the exhausted ehala. 
To run the twelvemonths' length again i 
I see the old bald-pated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow* 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine. 
To wheel the equal, dull routiue. 

The absent lover, minor heir* 

In vain assail him with their prayer. 

Deaf as my friend he sees them press. 

Nor makes the hour one moment less. 

Will you (the Major's with the houndsa 

The happy tenants share his rounds ; 

Coila's fair Rachel's care to day,t 

And blooming Keith*s engaged with Gray ;) 

From housewife cares a minute borrow — 

— That grandchild's cap will do tc-morrow— 

And join with me a moralizing, 

This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight deliver ; 

* • Another year is gone for ever. " 

And what is this day*8 strong suggestion I 

" The passing moment's all we rest on 1 »* 



• This wag written about the time oat bard 
made his tour to the Highlands, 1787. 

t This young lady was drawing a pioton 
of Ooila from the Yisioo, see page 191. 



1 



BURNS— POEMS. 



Rett on— for what 1 What do we here T 
Or why regard the pasting year 1* 
Will time, amua'd with proverb 'd lore. 
Add to our date one minute more ? 
A few days may— a few years must- 
Repose us in the silent dust. 
Then, is it wise to damp our bliss t 
Yes, all such reasonings are amiss ! 
The voice of nature loudly cries. 
And many a message from the skies. 
That something in us never dies : 
That on this frail, uncertain state* 
Hang matters of eternal weight ; 
That future-life in worlds unknown 
Must take its hue from this alone i 
Whether as heavenly glory bright. 
Or dark as misery's woful night — 
Since then, my honoured first of friends. 
On this poor being all depends t 
Let us th* important now employ. 
And live as those who never die. 
Tho' you, with days and honours erown'd, 
WiCnessS that filial circle round, 
(A sight life's sorrows to repulse, 
A sight pale envy to convulse) 
Others now claim your chief regard, 
Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



EXTEMPORE, 

ON THE LATE MR WILLIAM 
SMELLIE,* 

AUTHOR OF THB PHILOSOPHY OF NA- 
TURAI. BISTORT, AND MEMBER OP THB 
ANXIQUARIAH AND RQVAX SOCIBTIES 
OF BDIKBUROH. 

To Crochallan came 
The old cockM hat, the grey surtout, the 

His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
Twas four long nights and days to shaving 

night. 
His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild-staring 

thatch'd, 
A head for thought profound and clear, xta- 

match'd; 
Yet, tho ' his caustic wit was biting rude. 
His heart wat warm, benevoleat, and good. 



POETICAL INSCRIPTION, 

FOR 

AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE, 



Thou of an independent mind. 

With soul resolved, with soul resigned ; 



at Crochallan Feucibles. 



Prepared power's proudest firown to bn/e. 
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave i 
Virtue alone who dost revere. 
Thy own reproach alone dost fear. 
Approach this shrine and worship here. 



THE DEATH OF MR RIDDEL. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more. 
Nor pour your descant grating on my ear : 
Thou young-eyed Spring, thy charms I can- 
not bear ; 
More welcome were to me grim Winter's 
wildest roar. 

How can ye please, ye flowers, with all your 

3 Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my 
friend : 
How can I to the tuneful strain attend t 
That strain pours round th' untimely tomb 
where Riddel lies, f 



And soothe the Virtues weeping on thid 

bier; 
The Man of Worth, and has not left his 

Is in his * narrow houie' for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others 

greet; 
Me, mem ry of my loss will only meet. 



A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. 



How cold is that bosom which folly once fired, 
Uow pale is that cheek where the rouge 



lately glisten 'd: 
silent that 
tired, 



How silent that tongue which the echoes oft 



If sorrow and angvish their exit await. 

From friendship and dearest aS'ection re- 
moved ; 
How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate. 
Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst un> 
loved. 



t Robert Riddel, Esq. of Friar's Carse, a 
very worthy character, and one to whom oar 
bard thought himself under many obligations* 



S4S 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



We'll search throogH the'garden for eaeh silly 
flower. 
We'll roam throngh the forest for each idle 
weed; 
Bat chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower. 
For none e'er approach 'd her but rued the 
1 rash deed. 

Well sculpture the marble, well measure the 
lay; 

Here Vanity strums on her idiot Ipe ; 
There keen indignation shall dart on her prey. 

Which sporaing contempt shall redeem from 



EPITAPH. ~ 

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, 
What oace was a butterfly gay in life's 
beam: 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Waat only of goodness denied her esteem. 



ANSWER TO A MANDATE 

SKNT BY THB SBRVEYOB Oir THB WTN- 
UOWBi CARRIAGES, &C. TO EACH FAR- 
IIBK, ORBERIKQ EIM TO SEND A SIGNED 
LIST OF BX3 HORSES, SERVANTS, 
•VTHKEIi-CARRIAGES, &C. AND WHK- 
THKR HE WAS A MARRIED MAN OR A 
BACHELOR. AND WBAT CHILDREN BE 



Sir, 09 your mandate did request, 
I send yon here a faithfu' list. 
My horses, servants, carts and graith^ 
To which I'm free to tak my aith. 
Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I bae fonr brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew before a pettle. 
Wy hand-afore,* a guid auld has been, 
And wight and wilfu' a' his days seen ; 
My hand.a-hin^ a guid brown filly, 
Wha aft has borne me safe frae Killie, f 
And your auld borough moay a time. 
In days when riding was nae crime : 
My fur-a-hin,§ a guid, grey beast, 
As e'er in tug or tow was traced : 
The fonr-h, a Highland Donald hasty, 
A d-mn'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastie. 
For-by a eowte, of cowtes the wale. 
As ever ran before a tail ; 
An he be spared to be a beast. 
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. 



* The fore-horse on the left-hand, in the 
plough. 

f The hindmost on the left-hand, in the 
plough. 

4: Kilmarnock. 

§ The liiadmoft on the right haodf ia the 
jloofh* 



An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token, 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken ; 
I made a poker o' the spindle. 
And my auld roither brnnt the trnndle. 
For men, l'v» three mischievous boys, 
Run-deils for rantin and for noise; 
A gadsman ane, a thresher t'other, 
Wee Davoc hands the nowte in fother. 
I rule them, as 1 ought, discreetly, 
And often labour them completely. 
And aye on Sundays duly nightly, 
I on the questions tairge them tightly, 
'Till, faith, wee Davoc's grown sae gleg, 
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg) 
He'll screed you alf effectual calling. 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 

I've nane in female servant station. 
Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation t 
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is. 
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; 
For weans I'm mair than weel contented. 
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted: 
My sonsie, smirking, dear bought Bess, 
She stares the daddie in her face. 
Enough of ought ye like but grace. 
But her, my bouny, sweet wee lady* 
I've said enough for her already. 
And if ye tax her or her mither. 
By the L — d ye'se get them a' thegithee, 

And now, remember, Mr Aiken, 

Nae kind of licence out I'm takin'. 

Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle. 

Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 

I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit ! 

And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. 

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it* 
The day and date as under notet ; 
Then know all ye whom it conceraa, 
Subscripsi hvic, 

ROBERT BURNS 



Nae gentle dame3,'tho' e'er sae fair;!] 
Shall ever be my muse's care ; 
Their titles a' are empty show ; 
Gie me my Highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
Aboon the plain sae rushy, O, 
I set me down, wi' right good will. 
To sing my Highland lassie, O. 

were yon hills and valleys mine. 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine ; 
The world then the love should know 

1 bear my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &o. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me. 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 



I 



[1 Gentle is used here in opposition to sim- 
ple, in the Scottish and old English sense at 
the word. Nm gentle dames. — No bi^ 
Wooded, * 



BURNS. --POEMS. 



Bat while my crimson eaTrcnte flow» 
I'll love my Highland lasiie, O. 
Withia the giea, Stc 

Altho' thro' foreign climM 1 range, 
I know her heart will never change. 
For her bosom burns with honour's glow. 
My faithful Highland lassie, O. 
Withm the glen, &c. 

For her I'll dare the billow's roar. 
For her I'll trace a distant shore, 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw. 
Around my Highland lassie, O, 
Within the glen, ite. 

She has my heart, she has my band. 
By sacred truth and honour's baud I 
'Till the mortal strol^e shall lay me loWf 
I'm thine my Highland lassie^ O. 
Within the glen, &ic. 

Farewell the glen eae bushy, O, 
Farewell the plain sae rushy, O, 
To other lands 1 now must go. 
To sing my Highland lassie, O,* 



IMPBOMFTU, 



-*S BIRTB DA¥. 



4th November. 1798. 

Old Winter with his frosty beard. 
Thus once to Jove his prayer prefen'dj 
•* What have I done of all the yesj. 
To bear this hated doom severe ? 
Aly cheerless suns no pleasure know ; 
Kigfat's horrid car drags, dreary, slow i 
My dismal months no joys are crowning. 
But spleeuy English hanging, drowning 

Now, Jove, for once he mighty civil ; 

To counterbalance all this evil ; 

Give me, and I've no more to say. 

Give me Maria's natal day ! 

That brilliant gift will so enrich me. 

Spring, Summer,Autamn cannot.match me ;' 

*• 'Tis uone ! " says Jove ; so ends my story, 

And Winter once rejoiced iu glory. 



ADDRESS TO A LADY. 

Oh wert thou in the canld blast. 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea. 
Sly plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee t 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw. 
Thy bield should be my boaom. 

To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 

The desert were a paradise. 
If thoa wert there, if thou wert there. 



* This la an early production, and seems to 
liMre b«ea written on Highland Mary. 



Ur were I monarch o' the globe, 

With thee to reign, with ibee to reign | 

The brightest jewel iu my crovvn 
Wad be my queen, wad be my ^neen. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 



UI8S JESSY li— 



, OV DUUTBIES ; 



With books which the bard presented her. 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair. 
And with them take the poet's prayer ; 
Tliat fate may in her fairest page. 
With every kindliest, best piesage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name: 
With native worth, and spotless fame. 
And wakeful caution, still aware 
Of ill— but chief, man 's felon snare ; 
All blameless joys on earth we hnd. 
And all the treasures of the mind— 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful iriend, the bard. 



Written on the 25th January, 1793, the birth- 
day of the author, on heating a thrush sing 
in a morning walk. 

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless 
bough. 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain. 
See aged Winter "mid his surly reign. 

At thy blythe carol clears his furrowed brow. 

So in lone poverty's dominion drear. 
Sits meek content with light unanxious 

heart. 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 



Yet come, thou child of poverty and care. 
The mite high heaven bestowed, (hat mite 
with thee I'll share. 



EXTEMPOBE, 



On refusing to dine with him. after having 
been promised 'the first of oompan) , and the 
first of cookery, 17th December, 1795. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not. 

And cookery the first in the nation : 
Who is proof to thy personal converse and 

i ,1a proof to all other temptation. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



TO MB S^E. 

7ITH ▲ PRESEKT Oy A DOZEN OF PORTRB. 

had the malt thy strength of mind. 
Or hops the flavour of tb; wit ; 
I'were drioJc for first of huinaa kind, 
A gift that e'en for S— e were fiu 
rusalem Tarern, Dumfries. 



THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 

Tune—** Push about the Jorum, " 

Apnl, 1795. 

Doeg haughty Gaol inTasion threat t 

Then let the loons beware, sir, 
Diere's wooden walls upon our seas, 

Aud volunteers on shore, sir. 
i'he Nith shall run to Corsincon,* 

And Criffel sink in Sol way, f 
!:-re we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally I 

"Fall derail, && 

' let US not, like snarling tykes. 
In wrangling be divided ; 
Till slap come in an unco loon 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
8e Britain still to Britain uue, 

Amang oursels united ; 
For never but by British hands 
Aiaun British wrangs be righted. 
♦• Fal de rail, iic. 

The kettle 0' the kirk and state. 

Perhaps a clout may fail in't ; 
Bat deil a foreign tinkler loon 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't ; 
Jur fathers' bluid the kettle bought. 

And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 
8y heaven the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil iu 

" Fall de rail, &c 

Tlie wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

And the wretch, his true born brother. 
Who would set the mob aboon the throne. 

May they be damn'd together ! 
Who will not sing •♦ God save the king," 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But, while wa sing ♦* God save the king," 

We'll ne'er forget the people. 



* A high hill at the source of the Nith. 
•f A well known mountain at the mouth of 
4ttt Hue river. 



AJake, alake, the meikU deQ, 

Wi' a' his witchet 

Are at it, skelpin' ! jig and reel, 

la my poor ponche* 

I, modestly, fu* fain wad hint it, 
Ihat one pound one, I sairly want It j 
If wi' the hizzie down ye send it» 

It would be kind; 
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted' 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hail design. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while bow I've been licket. 
And by fell death was nearly nicket » 
Grim loon I he gat me by the fecket. 

And sair me sheuk 1 
But, by guid luck, I lap a wicket. 

And turn'd a ueulb 

But by that health, I've got a share o*t. 
And by that life I'm promised mair o't, 
AJy hale and weel I'll tak' a' care o't, 

A tentier way : 
Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't. 

For ance and aye. 



The friend whom wild from wisdom's way. 
The fumes of wine infuriate send : 

(Not moony madness more astray) 
Who but deplores that hapless friend T 

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, 
Ah why should I such scenes outlive I 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart I 
'Tis thine to pity and forgivew 



POEM ON LIFE, 



My honoured colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the poet 'e weal : 
Ah t how sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill. 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty world were it. 

Would pain and care, and sickness spare itt 

And fortune, favour, worth, and merit. 

As they deserve ; 
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ; 

Syne wha would starve ?) 



BURNS—POEiMS. 



Then that enrst carmaguole, auld Satan^ 
Watches like baudrons by a rattan. 
Our sinfa' saul to get a claat on 

Wi' felon ire; 
Syne, whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cact sattt on, 

He's aif like lire. 

Ah Nick ! ah Nick, it is na fair, 
First showing us the tempting ware. 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare. 

To put us daft ; 
Syne weave unseen thy spider's snare 

hell's dama'd waft. 

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by. 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh. 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy. 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye. 

Thy sicker treasure. 

Soon heels o*er gowdie ! in he gangs. 
And like a sheep-head on the tangs. 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murdering wrestle, 
As dangling ia the wind he hangs 

A gibbet's tasseL 

But lest you think I am uncivil, 

To plague you wkh this draunting drivel. 

Abjuring a intentions evil, 

1 quat my pen ; 
ITje Lord preserve us frae the devil ! 

Ameut amen! 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH- ACHE, 

My curse upon your venom 'd stang. 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; 
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeaace; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines ! 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes. 
Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes ; 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan; 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases. 

Aye mocks our groan 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ; 
I throw the wee stools o'er the meikUf* 
As round the fire the giglets keckle. 

To see me loup ; 
While raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

O* a' the num'rous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty stools. 

Or worthy friends raked i ' the mools. 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o* knaves or fash o' fools. 

Thou bear'st the gres. 



And ranked plagues their nnrobera tell, 
Indreadfu' raw. 

Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell, 
Amang them a' I 

O thou grim mischief-making chiel. 
That gars the notes o' discord squeel, 
'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

lu gore a shoe-thick ; 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weel 

A towmond's Tooth-Acfae> 



rune— ••Morag.'* 

O wha is she that lo'es me. 
And has my heart a-keeping t 

O sweet is she that lo'es me. 
As dews o' summer weeping. 
In tears the rose-bud steeping. 



O that's the lassie o' my heart, 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
O that's the queen o* womankind. 

And ne'er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shall meet a lassie. 

In grace and beauty charming. 

That e'en thy chosen lasaie. 

Ere while thy breast sae warming. 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming. 
O that's, &C. 

If thou hadst heard her talking. 
And thy attentions plighted. 

That ilka body talking. 

But her by thee is slighted t 
Aud thou art all delighted. 

O that's, iiO. 

If thou hast met this fair one ; 
When frae her thou hast parted. 

If every other fair one. 
But her thou hast deserted, 
Aud thou art broken hearted-o 
O that 's, &c 



Jockie's ta'en the paning kisg. 
O'er the inountain he is gane ; 

And with him is a' my bliss, 
Nought but griefs with me remaia. 

Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 
Pla^hy sleets and beating rain. 

Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw» 
Drifting o'er the frozen plain* 

Wben the shades of evening creep 
O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e* 

Sound and safely may he sleep, 
Sweetly blythe his wamkening bet 

He will think on her he loTCfly 
Fondly he'll repeat her aaxut 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRAKY. 



The frost of hermit age might warm : 
My Peggy's vforth, my Peggy's miiid, 
Wight charm the first of human kiud : 
I love my Peggy 's angel air, 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art. 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
"Who but owns their magic sway, 
>Vho but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
The generous purpose, nobly dear. 
The gentle look, that rage disaj-ma. 
These ore all immortal charms. 



WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER, 

inclosing a lettkr to captain grosh, 
to bb left with mr cardonkbl, 
antiquakian. 

Tum — '• Sir John Malcom." 

Ken ye ought o ' Captaia Grose ? 

Igo, and ago. 
If he's among his friends or foes ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he South, or is he North i 

Igo, and ago. 
Or drowned in the river Forth f 
Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highland bodies 7 

And eaten like a wethPA 'ihgfis ? 
Iram, coram, ).v^»>- 

Is he to Abram's bosom ga_ ? 

Igo, and ago. 
Or haudin' Sarah by the warn. ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Where'er he be, the Lord be near -i rci} 

Igo, and ago, 
Af for the deii he daur na steer him, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit th' inclosed letter, 

Igo, and ago, 
Which will oblige your humble debtor. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may you have auld stanea in store. 

The very stanes that Adam bore, 
Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo, and ago, 
"Oe coins o' Satan's coronatioa I 

Iiam, coram, dago. 



ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq, Q¥ FINTB7. 
ON RBCBIVIKa A FAVOUK. 

I call no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns) 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns. 
And all the tribute of my heart returns. 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
The gilt still dearer as the giver yuu. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling elars of night \ 
If aught that giver from my miud eliace ; 
If 1 that giver's bounty e'er disgrace; 
Then roll to me, along your wandering 

spheres. 
Only to number out a villain's 7% 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest. 
As e'er God with his image blest ; 
The friend of man, the friend of truth. 
The friend of age, and guide of youth : 
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd. 
Few heads with knowledge so inform»d : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 

O Thon, who kindly dost provide 

For ev'ry creature's want J 
We bless thee, God of nature wide. 

For all thy goodness lent ; 

And if it please thee, lieavenly guide. 

May never worse be sent ; 
Put whether granted or denied. 

Lord bless us with content 1 
Amen! 



TO MY DEAK AND MUCH HONOUBED 

FKIBND, 

MRS DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. 

ON SENSIBILITY. 

Sensibility how charming. 
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell j 

Bat distress, with horrors arming. 
Thou hast also known too well! 

Fairest flower, behold the lily* 

Blooming in the sunny ray « 
Let the blast sweep o'er the vailfr^ 

Sf; it prostrate on the clay. 



BURNS.— POEM 3. 



II*ar fhf wood-lark charm the forest, 
Telling o'er his little joys : 

Hapless bird: a prey the surest, 
To each pirate of the skies. 

Nearly bonght the hidden treasure. 
Finer fe^lin^s can bestow: 

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure. 
Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



A TERSE, 

COMPOSED AND KEPBATKD BY BURNS, T 
THE MASTER OF THE HOUs'K, ON TAB- 
INO LEAVE AT A PLACS IN THE HIGH 
LANDS WHERE HE HAD BEEN noSP. 
TABLY ENTERTAINfiD. 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er ; 

A time that surely shall come ; 
In heaven itself, I'll ask no more, 

Ihaii Just a Highland weicom* 



CORRESPONDENCE 



MR. GEORGE THOMPSON. 



CORRESPONDENCE, &c. 



WR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

SIB, Edinburgh, September, 1792. 

For some years past, I have, ■with a friend or 
two, employed inanj leisure hours in selecting 
md collating the most favourite of our nation- 
al melodies for publication. We have engaged 
Plejel, the most agreeable composer living, to 
put accompaniments to these, and also to com- 
pose an instrumental prelude and conclusion 
to each air, the better to fit them for concerts, 
both public and private. To render this 
woik perfect» we are desirous to nave the 
poetry improved, •where\er it seems unworthy 
of the music ; and that it is so in many in- 
glances, is allowed by every one conversant 
w ith our musical collections. The editors of 
these seem in general to have depended on the 
music proving an excuse for the verses ; and 
heuce some charming melodies are united to 
mere nonsense and doggrel, while others are 
nccomiuodated with rhymes so loose and indeli- 
cate, as cannot be sung iu decent company. 
To remove this reproach, would be an easy 
task to the author of The Cotter's Saturday 
>iight; and, for the honour of Caledonia, I 
would fain hope he may be induced to take up 
the pen. If so, we shall be enabled to present 
the public with a collection infinitely more 
interesting than any tbat has yet appeared, 
and acceptable to all persons of taste, whether 
they wish for correct melodies, delicate ac- 
companiments, or characteristic verses. — We 
•will esteem your poetical assistance a particu- 
lar favour, besides paying any reasonable price 
jou shall please to demand for it. Profit is 
quite a secondary consideration with ns, and 
we are resolved to spare neither pains nor ex- 
pense on the pubbcation. Tell me frankly 
then, whether you will devote your leisure 
to writing twenty or twenty-five songs, suited 
to the puriicular melodies, which 1 am pre- 
pared to send you. A few songs, exception- 
able ouly m some of their verses, 1 will like- 
wise submit to your consideration : leaving it 
to you, either to mend these or make new 
songs io their stead. It is superfluous to as. 
sure you, that I have no intention to displace 
any of the sterling old songs ; those only will 
b« removed which appear quite sillji or ab8o> 



lotely indecent. Even these shall all be ez&> 
mined by Mr Enrns, and if he is of opinion 
that any of ihem are deserving of the music in 
such cases, no divorce shall take place. 

Relying on the letter accompanying this, to 
be forgiven for the liberty I have taken in ad- 
dressing you, I am with great esteem, sur, 
your most obedient humble servant, 

G. THOMSON. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
SIR, Dumfries, I6th September, 1792. 
I have just this moment got your letter. Aa 
the request yon make to me will positively add 
to my enjoyments in complying with it, I shall 
enter into your undertaking with all the small ■ 
portion of abilities I have, strained to their ut- 
most exertion by the impulse of enthusiasm. 
Only, don't hurry me: " Deil tak the hind- 
most" is by no means the crt de guerre of mj 
muse. "Will you, as I am inferior to none of 
you in enthusiastic attachment to the poetry 
and music of old Caledonia, and since yon re- 
quest it, have cheerfully promised ay mite of 
assistance— will jou let me have the list of 
your airs, with the first line of the printed, 
verses you intend for tbem, that I may have an 
opportunity of suggesting any alteration that 
may occur to me. You know 'tis in the way 
of my trade ; still leaving you, gentlemen, the 
undoubted right of publishers, to approve, or 
reject, at your pleasure, for yonr own publica- 
tion. Apropos, if you are for English verses, 
there is, on my part, sm end of the matter. 
Whether in the simplicity of the ballad, or the 
pathus of the song, I can only hope to please 
myself in being allowed at least a sprinkling of 
our native tongue. English verses, particu- 
larly the works of Scotsmen, that have merit, 
are certainly very eligible. • Tweedside ;' 'Ah ! 
the poor Shepherd's mournful fate;' 'Ahl 
Chloris, could I now but sit,' ice yon cannot 
mend ; but such insipid stufiT as * To Fanny 
fair, could I impart,' &e. usually set to *The 
Mill Mill O,' is a disgrace to the collcetionB la 
which it has already appeared, and would 
doubly disgrace a collectiou that wi]! have Iii4 



2h6 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



superior merit of jonW. But more of this in 
tlie farther prosecution of the bukiuess, 
am coiled on for m; scrictares and amendments 
— I saj, amendments ; for I will not alter ex- 
cept where 1 myself, at least, think that I 
amend. 

As to anj remuneration, you may think my 
BODgs either abore or below price ; for they 
shall absolutely be the one or the other. In 
the honest enthusiasm with which I embark in 
your undertaking, to talk of money, wages, 
fee, hire, iic would be downright prostitution 
of soul I A proof of each of the songs that I 
compose or amend, I shall receive as a faroor. 
In the rustic phrase of the season, *' Ciuid 
speed the wark 1" 

I am. ail, your rery humble serrant* 
fi. BURNS. 

P. S. I have some particular reasons for 
wishing my interference to be known as little 
as possible. 



No. in. 

ME THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

SBAB SIB. 

Edinburgh, 13£A October^ 1792. 

I received, with much satisfaction, your 
pleasant and obliging letter, and I retnm my 
warmest acknowledgments for the enthusiasm 
with which you have entered into our under- 
taking. We have now no doubt of being abli 
to produce a collection highly deserving of 
public attention, iu all respects. 

I agree with jou in thinking English ve: 
\hat have merit, very eligible, wherever 
verses are necessary ; because the English be. 
eomes every year, more and more, the language 
of Scotland ; but if you mean that no English 
verses, except those by Scottish authors, oughi 
to be admitted, I am half inclined to ditler 
from you. 1 should consider it unpardonable 
to sacriiice one good song in the Scottish di- 
alect to make room for English verses ; but 
if we can select a few excellent ones suited to 
the unprovided or Ul-provided airs, would it 
Dot be the very bigotry of literary patriotism 
tu reject such, merely because the authors were 
born south of the Tweed f Our sweet air • My 
Nannie O, ' which in the collection is joined to 
the poorest stuff' that Allan Ramsay ever wrote, 
beginning,' While some for pleasure pawn their 
health,' answers so finely to Dt Percy's beauti- 
ful song, • O Nanny wilt thou go with me,' that 
one would think he wrote it on purpose for the 
air. However, it is not at all our wish to 
confine you to English verses : you shall freely 
be allowed a sprinkling of your native tongue, 
as you elegantly express ity and, moreover, 
we will patiently wait your own time. One 
thing only 1 beg, which is, that however gay 
and sportive the muse may be, she may always 
be decent. Let her not write what beauty 
would blush to speak, nor wound teat charm- 
ing delicacy, which forms the most precious 
dowry of our daughters. I do not conceive the 
song to be the most proper vehicle for witty 
Bua brilliant conceits; simplicity, I believe, 
cfavttld b« iu fiomiaeat featiue ; but in some 



of oiir songs, the writes have eonfimiukd 
simplicity with coarseness and vulgarity} 
although, between the one and the other, as 
Dr Beattie well observes, there is as great a dif- 
ference as between a plain suit of clothes and a 
bundle of rags. The humorous ballad, or pa- 
thetic complaint, is best suited to our artlesa 
melodies ; and more interesting indeed iu all 
songs than the most pointed wit, dazzling 
descriptions, and flowery fancies. 

With these trite observations, I send you 
eleven of the songs, for which it is my wish to 
substitute others of your writing. 1 shall soon 
transmit the rest, and at the same time, a pro- 
spectus of the whole collection j' and you may 
believe we will receive any hints that you are 
so kind as to give for improving the work, with 
the greatest pleasure and thankfulness. 

I remain, dear Sir. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

UY OBAR SIR, 

Let me tell yon, that yon are too fastidiom 
iu your ideas of songs and ballads. I own that 
your criticisms are just ; the songs you specify 
in your list have all but one the faults yon re- 
mark in them ; but who shall mend the mat- 
ter ? Who shall rise up and say — Go to, I will 
make a better ? For instance, on reading over 
• The Lea-rig,' 1 immediately set about trying 
my hand on it, and. after all, I could make 
nothing more of it !kan the following, which. 
Heaven knows, is poor enough. 

When o*er the hiU the eastern star, 

lells bughtin lime is near, my jo ; 
And owsen frae the farrow 'd field. 

Return sae dowf and weary O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birka 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll mett thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 

In mirkest glen at midnight hour, 

I'd rove and ne'er be eerie O, 
If through that glen I gaed to thee. 

My ain kind aearie O, 
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,* ' 

And I w ere ne'er sae wearie O, 



I 



* In the copy transmitted to Mr Thomson, 
instead of wild, was inserted wet. But iu one 
of the manuscripts, probably written after- 
wards, wet was changed into wild, evidently 
a great improvement. The lovers might 
meet on the lea-rig, •• although the night wer« 
ne'er so wild, " that is, although the summer, 
wind blew, the sky loured, and the thunder 
murmured ; such circumstances might render 
their meeting still more interesting. But if 
the night were actually wet, why should they 
meet on the lea-rig P On a wet night, the ima- 
gination cannot contemplate their situation 
there with any complacency — Tibullus, and 
after him Hammond, has conceived a happier 
Situation for Igveri on a %«t night. Prubabi 



^UENS.— CORRESPONDENCE. 



337 



Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr 
Percy's ballad to the air 'Nannie O,' is just. It 
is, besides, perhaps the most beautiful ballad 
in the English language. But let me remark 
to you, that in the sentiment and style of our 
Scottish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, a 
something that one may call the Doric stjle^ 
and dialect of vocal music, to which a dash of 
our native tongue and manners is particularly, 
nay, peculiarly, apposite. For this reason, 
and, upon my honour, for this reason alone, I 
am of opinion (but as I told you before, my 
opinion is yours, freely yours, to approve or 
reject, as you please) that my ballad of 'Nannie 
O' might perhaps do for one set of verses to the 
tune. Now don't let it enter into your head, 
that you are under any necessity of taking my 
verses. I have long ago made up ray mind as 
to my own reputation in the business of author- 
ship ; and have nothing to be pleased or oSeud- 
ed at, in your adoption or rejection of my 
verses. Though you shoi:ld reject one half of 
■what I give you, I shall be pleased with your 
adopting the other half, and shall continus to 
serve you with the same assiduity. 

In the printed copy of my • Nannie O,' the 
name of the river is horridly prosaic. I will 
alter it, 

•• Behind yon hill where Lugar flows." 

Girvan is the name of the river that suits the 
idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is the most 
agreeable modulation of syllables. 

I will soou give )ou a great many more re- 
marks on this business ; but I have just now 
an opportunity of conveying you this scrawl, 
tree of postjige, an expense that it is ill able to 
pay ; so, with my best compliments to honest 
Allan, Good be wi' ye, &c 

Friday NighU 



ing of ardent passion, and thongh it might 

been easy in after-times to have gives 
. a polish, yet that polish, to me, whose 
they were, and who perhaps alone cared for 
them, would have defaced the legend of my 
heart, which was so faithfully inscribed oa 
them. Their uncouth simplicity waSf as thej 
■ of wines, their race. 

"Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 

And leave auld Scotia's shore ? 

Will ye go the Indies, my Mary, 

iross th* Atlantic's roar Y 

O sweet grows the lime and the orange. 
And the apple on the pine : 
ut a' the charms o' the Indies^ 
Can nep^r equal thine. 

hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 
I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true. 
And sae may the Heavens forget me. 



O plight me your faith, my Mary, 

And plight me your lily-whue hand 
O plight me your faith, my Mary, 
^Before 1 leave Scotia's strand. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join. 
And curst be the cause that shall part us ; 

The hour and the moment o' time !* 

♦Galla Water' and 'Anld Rob Morris,' I 
think, will most prooably be the next subject Ot 

speak out your criticisms with equal frankness. 
My wish is, not to stand aloof, the uncomplying 
bigot of opinzaire/e, but cordially to join issue 
with you in the furtherance of tiie work. 



Saturday Morning. 

As I find I have still an hour to spare thii 
morning before my conveyance goes away, '. 
will give you ♦ Nannie O' at length. (See p 
809.) 

Your remarks on the • Ewebughts, Marion, ' 
are just; still it has obtained a place among 
our more classical Scottish songs ; and what 
with many beauties in its composition, 
more prejudices in its favour, you will not find 
it easy to supplant it. 

In my very early years, when 1 was thinking 
of going to the West Indies, I took the follow- 
ing farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, 
and has nothing of the merit of 'Ewe bughts ;' 
but it will fill up this page. You must know, 
ti»at all my earlier love-songs were the breath- 



Barns had in his mind the vprs 
Scottish song, in which wet and w 
turally enougu conjoined. 

"When my ploughman comes hai 
lie's often wet and weary ; 

Cast oft" the wet, put on the dry, 
Ajid o^ae to bed my deary. ' ' 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

November Sth, 1792. 
It yon mean, my dear sir, that all the songs 
in your collection shall be poetry of the first 
merit, I am afraid yon will find more difficulty 
in the undertaking than you are aware of. There 
is a peculiar rhytbmus in many of our airs and 
a necessity of adapting syllables to the empha- 
sis, or what I would cill the feature notes, of 
the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him un- 
der almost insuperable difficulties. For in- 
stance, in the air, • My wife's a wanton wee 
thing,' if a few lines, smooth and pretty, can 
be adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The 
following were made extempore to it ; and 
though, on farther study, I might give you 
somftthing more profound, yet it might not suit 
the light-horse gallop of the air so well as this 
random clink. 



• This song Mr Thomson hai; not adopted in 
his coliectioo. It deserres^ however, to be 
i preserved. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRABT. 



Ml IfVIFE'S A WINSOME WEE 
THING. 



She is a winsome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thiug. 
She is a bonnid wee ibing. 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never sew a fairer, 

I never lo'ed a dearer. 

And ueist vaj heart I'll wear her, 

For fear mj jewel tine. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She id a Landsoine wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing. 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

The warld's wrack we share o't» 
The wrastle and the care o't ; 
\N i' her I'll bljlhely bear it, 
And think my lot divine. 

I have jnst been looking over the Collier's 
bonny Oochler, and if the following rhapsody, 
vrhich I composed the other day, on a charm- 
ing Ayrshire girl, Miss , as she passed 

through this place to England, will suit your 
taste better thaa the Collier Lassie, fall on and 
welcome. 

O saw ye bonnie Letley, 
As she gaed o'er the border t 

She's gane like Alexander, 
To spread her coaqiieats farther. 

To see her is to love her. 

And love but her for ever ; 
For Nature made her what she ia. 

And never made anither. 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjeccs we, before theet 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The Deil he could na scaith thee. 
Or au^ht that wad belang thee J 

He'd look into thy bonnie face. 
And say, •' I canna wrang thee." 

The powers aboon will tent thee ; 

Misfortune sha'nna steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely. 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Refnrn again, fair Lesley» 

Return to Caledouie 1 
That we may brag we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae boaaie. 



I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more 
pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will 
feke. and deserve, a greater effort. However, 
they are all put into your hands, as clay into 
^e hands of the potter, to mak« 



Jtkrev 



MR BURNS TO MR TH0M80II» 
HIGHLAND MARY. 

Tune—** Katherioe Ogie." 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams aronnd 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be jour woods, and fair jour flower*. 

Your waters never drumlie 1 
There simmer first unfauld her robes. 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

C my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom 'd the gay, green birk. 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom ; 
As underneath the fragrant shade, 

I clasp 'd her to my bosom I 
The golden hours, on angel wings. 

Flew o'er me ami my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life. 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi* mony a vow, and lock'd embrace. 

Our parting was fu' tender : 
And, pledging aft to meet again. 

We tore ourselves asunder : 
But Ohl fell death's untimely frost. 

That nipt my flower sae early 1 
Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay. 

That wraps my Highland Mary 

pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 
1 aft hae fciss'd sae fondly ; 

And closed for aye, the sparkling glance. 

That dwelt oi te sae kindly ! 
And mouldering < ow in silent dust. 

The heart that lo'ed me dearly! 
But still within my bosom's core. 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 

MY nSAR SIR, nth November, 1792. 

1 agree with you, that the song, • Katherin* 
Ogie,' is very poor stuff, and unworthy, alto- 
gether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. I 
tried to meud it, but the awkward souno Ogie, 
recurring so often in the rhyme, spoils every 

I attempt at introducing sentiment into (be piece. 
'The foregoing song pleases myself; 1 ihmk 
it is in my happiest manner; you will see at 
first glance that it suits the air. The subject 
of the song is one of the most interesting pas- 
sages of my youthful Jajsj and I own that 1 
should be much flattered to see the verses set 
to an air, which would insure celebrity. Per- 
haps after all, 'tis the still glowing prejudice 
of my heart, that throws a borrowed lustra 
over the merits of the composition. 

I have partly taken your idea of * Au'ld Roh 
Morris.' I have adopted the two first verses, 
and am going un with the song on a ue» plan, 
which promises pretty well. I take up one o» 
another, just as the bee of the moment buzzes 
in my bonnet lug ; and do you, tans ceremonie, 
make what use yon choose of the prodnctioo*. 
Adieu, itc 



II 

I 



lURXS— CORRESPONDENCE. 



No. VII. 
MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

MAR SIR, Edinburgh, Nov. 1792. 

I wasJQst going to -write to you, that on meet- 
ing with your Nannie,* I had fallen violently in 
love with her. I thank you, theretore, for 
Bending the charming rustic to me in the dress 
you wish her to appear in before the public. She 
does you great credit, and will soon be admitted 
Into the best company. 

I regret that your song for the 'Lea-Rig, * is 
BO short ; the air is easy, sung soon, and very 
pleasing ; so that if the singer stops at the end 
of two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost- ere it is 
well possessed. 

Although a dash of our native tongue and 
manners is doubtless peculiarly congenial and 
appropriate to our melodies, yet I shall be able 
o present a considerable number of the very 
Flowers of English Song, well adapted to 
■hose melodies, which in England, at least, will 
be the means of recommending them (o still 
greater attention than they have procured there. 
But you will observe, my plan is, that every 
air shall, in the first place, have verses wholly 
by Scottish poets ; and that those of English 
writers shall follow as additional songs, for 
the choice of the singer. 

What yon say of the »Ewe-bnghts' is just ; I 
admire it, and never meant to supplant it. 
All I requested was, that you would try your 
hand on some of the inferior stanzas, which are 
apparently no part of the original song ; but 
this I do not urge, because the song is of suffi- 
cient length, though those inferior stanzas be 
omitted, as they will be by the singer of taste. 
Yon must not think 1 expect all the songs to be 
of superlative merit ; that were an unreasonable 
expectation. 1 am sensible that no poet can 
sit down doggedly to pen verses and succeed 
well at all times. 

I am highly pleased with your humorous and I 
amoroas rhapsody on •Bonnie Leslie :' it is a 
thousand times better than the 'Collier's Las- 
sie:' "The deil he could nascaiih thee," &c. 
IB an eccentric and happy thought. Do yon 
not think, however, that the naines of such old 
heroes as Alexander, sound rather queer, un- 
less in pompous or mere burlesque verse! In- 
stead of the line, " And never made anither ;" 
I would humbly suggest, " And ne'er made 
sic anither;" and I would fain have you sub- 
stitute some other line for " Return to" Caledo- 
nie,'» in the last verse, because I think this al- 
teration in the orthography, and of the sound 
of Caledonia, disfigures the word, and renders 
it Hudibrastic. 

Of the other song, • My wife's a winsome 
wee thing,' I think the first eight lines are very 
good ; but I do not admire the other eight, be- 
cause four of them are bare repetitions of the 
first verses. I have been trying to spin a sfan- 
sa, but could make nothing better than the 
following ; do you mend it, or as Yorick did 
*ith the love-letter, whip it up in your owa 
way. 

O leese me on my wee thinp, 

My bonnia blythesome wee thin^ ; 



Tho* warld's care we share o't. 
And may see meikle mair o't, 
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, 
And ne'er a word repine. 

Yon perceiTe, my dear sir, I arail myself 
of the liberty which you condescend to allow ms 
by speaking freely what I think. Be assured, 
it is not my disposition to pick out the faults 
of any poem or picture I see ; my lirst and 
chief object is to discover and be delighted with 
the beauties of the piece. If I sit down to 
examine critically, and at leisure, what perhaps 
yon have written in haste, I may happen to ob- 
serve careless lines, the re-perusal of which 
might lead you to improve them. ITie wrea 
will often see what has been overlooked by tb« 
eagle, 

I remain yonrs, faithfully, &c. 

P. S. Your verses cpon • Highland Mary* 
are just come to hand ; they breathe the ge- 
nuine spirit of poetry, and, like the music, 
will last for ever. Such verses united to such 
an air, with the delicate harmony of Pleyel 
superad<led, might form a treat worthy of 
being presented to Apollo himself. I have 
heard the sad story of your Mary : you alwaj's 
seem inspired when you write of her. 



No. viir. 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

Dumfries, 1st December, 17S2. 
Yonr alterations of my 'Nannie 0* are perfectly 
right. So are those of • My wife's a wanton 
wee thing.' Your alteration of the second 
stanza is a positive improvement. Now, my 
dear Sir, with the freedom which characterises 
our correspondence, I must not, cannot alter 
' Bonnie Lesley. ' Yon are right, the word 
• Alexander ' makes the line a ll'tle uncouth. 
But i think the thought is pretty. Of Alex, 
ander, beyond all other heroes, it may be said, 
in the sublime language of scripture, that " b» 
went forth conquering and to conquer. " 

" For naftire made her what she is. 
And never made anither, " (such a person aa 
she is.) 

This is in my opinion more poetical thnii 
"Ne'er made sic anither." However, ii is 
immaterial: Make it either way.* " Caie.o- 
nie," I agree with you, is not so good a word 
as could be wished, though it is sanctioncU in 
three or four instances by Allan Ramsay ; but 
I cannot help it. In short, that species of 
stanza is the most difficult that I have ever 
tried. 

The « Lea-ri^* is as follows. (Where tha 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



, with the following ia addition.) 
The hunter lo'e 



Tor, 



ethen 



luntain dear, my jo : 
, the fisher seeks the glen, 
Along the burn to steer, my jo ; 
Gie me the hour o' gloarain grey, 

It mak's my heart sae cheery, 0, 
to meet thee on the lea rig, 
Mj aiu kind dearie> O. 

I am interrupted. Yours, &c. 



No. IX. 
MR BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

AULD ROB MORRIS.* 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon 

glen, 
de's the king o' guid fellows and wale o' auld 

He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and 

kine, 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in 

May i 
She's sweet as the evening amang the new 

hay; 
As blj the and as artless as the lambs on the 

lea. 
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. 

But Oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a 

And my daddie has nought hut a cot-house and 

A wooer like me manna hope to come speed. 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my 



The day comes to me, but delight brings me 

The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ; 
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist. 
And 1 sigh as my heart it wad burist in my 
breast. 



O, how past describing had then been my bliss, 
Aa now my distraction no words can express ! 



DUNCAN GRAY. 

Dnncan Gray cam here to woo. 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

On blythe yule night when we were fu'. 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 

Maggie coost her head fu' high, 

^' The first two lines are taken from bi 
t*«llad— the rsst is wholly origiual. 



Looked asklent and aneo skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan praj'at 

Ha. ha, &c. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig, f 

Ha, ha, ic 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin% 
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn j 

Ha, ha, iic 

Time and chance are but a tidef 

Ha, ha, &c 
Slighted love is sair to bide. 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Shall T, like a fool, quoth he. 
For a haughty hizzie die ? 
She may gae lo — France for me ! 

Ha, ha, &c. 

How it comes let doctors tell. 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg grew sick as he grew hea'y 

Ha, ha, &c 
Something in her bosom wrings. 
For relief a sigh she brings ; 
And Oh, her een they speak sic things I 

Ha, ha, &c 

Duncan wa^ a lad o' grace» 
Ha, ha, &c. 

Maggie's was a piteous case. 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan could na be her death. 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and canty baith. 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. t 



4th December, 179«. 
The foregoing I submit, ray dear sir, loyour 
better judgment. Acquit them or condemn 
them as seemeth good in your sight. Duncan 
Gray is that kind of light-horse gallop of an 
air which precludes sentiment. The ludicrous 
is its ruling feature. 



No. X. 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

SONG. 

Tune— I • I had a horse. " 

O poortith cauld and restless love. 
Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 

Yet poortith a' I could forgive. 
An' 'twere na' for my Jeanie. 

O why should fate sic pleasure hare. 
Life's dearest bands untwining ? 

Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 
Depend on fortune's shining ? 



^ 



+ A well-known rock in the frith of Clyde 

t This has nothing in common with the old 

licentious ballad of Duncan Gray, but tbe first 

line and part of the third. The rest is wholly 

original. 



I 



B U RNS CORRESPONDENCE. 



sal 



Tiua varld*3 wealtti ^rben I think oq, 
It's pride and a' the lave o't : 

Fie» fie, 0" gilly coward man, 
TUt he should be the slave o't. 
O why. &c. 

Her een sae bonnie blue betrayt 
How she repays my passion ; 

But prudence is her o'erword ay- • 
She talks o' rank and fashion. 
O why, 4cc 

O wha can prudence think upon. 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
O wha can prudence ihiiik upon. 

And sae in love as I am ? 
O why, «£C 

How blest the humble cottar s fate '.* 
He wooes his simple dearie; 

The silly bogles wealth and stato 
Can never make them eerie. 

O why should fate sic pleasure hava 
Life's dearest bands untwining! 

Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 
Depend on Fortune's sbiniog ? 



GALLA WATER. 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes. 
That wander thro' the blooming heather ; 

But Yarrow braes, nor Ellrick shaws. 
Can match the lads o' Galla water. 



But there is ane 
Aboon them £■ 

And I'll be his. 
The bonnie la 



[ loe him better; 
lid he'll be mine, 
o' Galla Water. 



Altho' his daddie was nae laird. 
And tho' I hae na nieikle tocher; 

Yet rich in kindness, truest love. 
We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water, 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
That coft contentment, peace or pleasure; 

The bands and bliss o' mutusd love, 
O that's the chiefest warld 's treasure ! 



January, 1793. 

Many returns of the season to yon, my dear 
sir. How comes on your publication 9 will 
these two foregoing be of any service to you ? 
1 should like to know wkat songs you print to 
each tune, besides the verses to which it is set. 
In short, I would wish to give you my opinion 
on all the poetry you publish, 'i ou 'know, it 
is my trade ; and a man in ihe way of his trade 
may suggest useful hints, that escape men of 
much superior parts and endowments in other 
things. 

If you meet with my dear, and much-valued 
C. greet him in my name, with the compli- 



menU of the e 



Yoursy <^c. 



No. XI. 
MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

EditUmrgk, Januftry, 20ih, 1793. 

Yon make me happy, my dear sir, and thou- 
sands will be happy to see the charming souga 
you have sent me. Many merry returns of 
n to you, and may you long continue 
le sons and daughters of Caledonia, to 
delight them, and to honour yourself. 

The four last songs with which you favocred 
me, for • Auld Kob Morris, Duncan Gray, 
Galia Water,' and ' Cauld Kail,' are admira- 
")le. Duncan is indeed a lad of grace, and his 
lumour will endear him to every body. 

The distracted lover in ' Auld Rob,' and the 
happy shepherdess in « Galla Water,' exhibit 
an excellent contrast ; they speak from genuine 
feeling, and powerfully touch the heart. 

'Ihe number of songs which 1 had originally 
n view was limited, but I now resolve to in- 
clude every Scotch air and song worth ting- 
ing ; leaving none behind but meie gleanings, 
to which the publishers of omnegaUierum are 
welcome. I would rather be the editor of a 
collection from which nothing could be taken 
away, than of one to which nothing couU be 
added. We intend presenting the subscribers 
a two beautiful stroke engravings; the one 
racteristic of the plaintive, and the other of 
lively songs ; and I have Dr Beattie's pro- 
e of an essay upon the subject of our na- 
tional music, if his health will permit him lu 
write it. As a number of our songs have 
doubtless been called forth by particular eveuis, 
or by the charms of peerless damsels, there 
must he many curious aneodotes relating to 
them. 

The late Mr Tytler of Woodhouselee, I ire- 
lieve, knew more of this than any body, for le 
joined to the pursuits of an antiquary, a la^ie 
for poetry, besides being a wan of Uie woriu, 
and possessing an enthusiasm for music beyond 
most of his contemporaries. He was mula 
pleased with this plan of mine, for I may ?ay, 
it has been solely managed by me, and we had 
several long conversations about it, when it 
was in embryo. If I could simply nieniiou 
the name of the heroine of each song, and ihe 
incident which occasioned the verses, it vould 
be gratifying. Pray, will you send me nny 
information of this sort, as well with regnro to 
your own songs, as the old ones 'f 

lo all the favourite songs of the plaintive or 
pastoral kind, will be joined the delicate ac- 
companiments, &c. of Pleyel. To those of 
the comic or humorous class, I think acooin- 
paniments scarcely necessary ; they are chiefly 
littedfor the conviviality of the festive board, 
and a tuneful voice, with a proper delivery of 
the words, renders them perfect, JCeverihe- 
less, to these 1 propose adding bass accompani- 
ments, because then they are tilted either for 
singing, orfor instrumental performance, whea 
there happens to be no singer. 1 mean to em- 
ploy our right trusty friend Mr Clarke to set 
the bass to these, which he assures me he will 
do, con amcre, and with much greater atten. 
tion than he ever bestowed on any thing <rf 
the kind. Cut for this last class of airs, I 



DIA310ND CABINET LIBRARY. 



«riU aot attampt to find more thaa one set of 



Tkat eccenlric bard Peter Pindar, has start- 
ed I know Dot bow maoy difficulties, about 
writing for the airs I sent to him, because of 
the peculiarity of their measure, and the tram- 
mels they impose on his flying Pegasus. I 
subjoin for your perusal the only one I have 
yet got from him, being for the fine air • Lord 
Gregory.* The Scots verses printed with that 
air. are taken from the middle of an old ballad, 
called, « The lass of Lochroyan,' which I do 
rot admire. I hare set down the air therefore 
as a creditor of yours. Many of the Jacobi 
Jongs are repleie ' ' ' '" '' '" 

not the best of th( 
ef comic songg t 



POSTSCRIPT. 
FROM THE HON. A. ERSKINE. 



Mr Thomson has been so obliging 
jnchantingly patbet: 



and ' Dunci 
hutnoui 



Gray ' possesses native genuii 
** spak o' lowpin o'er a 'lun,'' is a line of 
itself that should make you immortal. I 
sometimes hear of you from our mutual friend 
C. who is a most excellent fellow, and posses- 
ses, above all men I know, the charm of a 
mo*t obliging disposition. You kindly pro- 
mised me, about a year ago, a coUectiou of 
your unpublished productions, religious and 
amorous ; I know from experience how irksome 
it is to copy. If you will get any trusty per- 
son in Dumfries to write them over fair, I will 
cive Peter Hill whatever money he asks for 
bia trouble ; and I certainly shall not betray 
your coofidence. 

I am your hearty admirer, 
ANDREW ERSKINE. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

26th January, 1793. 
I approve greatly, my dear sir, of your plans. 
Dr Beattie's essay will of itself be a treasure. 
On my part, [ mean to draw up an appendix 
to the Doctor's essay, containing my stock of 
anecdotes, <kc. of our Scots songs. All the 
late Mr Tytler's anecdotes I have by me, taken 
Jown in the course of my acquaintance with 
aim from his own mouth. I am such an en- 
thusiast, that in the course of my se>eral pere- 
grinations ihrough Scotland, I made a pilgrim- 
age to the individual spot from which every 
song took its rise, * Lochaber, ' and the < Braes 
of Ballenden,' excepted. So far as the local- 
ity, either from the title of the air, or the tenor 
of the song, could be ascertained, I have paid 
my devotions at the particular shrine of every 

1 do not doubt but you might make a very 
valuable coUectiou of Jacobite songs— but 
would it five no oflFence f* In the meantime, 
da uut yuu think that tome of them, particu- 



larly < The Sow's tall to Geordie, ' as ui «!r, 
with other words, might be well worth a plac* 
in your collection of lively songs ? 

If it were possible to procure songs of merit, 
it would be proper to have one set of S»,-ol« 
words to every air, and that the set of words 
to which the notes ought to be set. Th-re is 
a naivtte, a. p^islorai simplicity, in a slight in- 
termix'.ure of Scots words and phraseolog-y 
which is more in unison (at least to my tasie, 
ana I will add, to every genuine Calcdoniait 
taale), with the simple pathos, or rustic 
sprightliness of oar native music, than any 
Ensilish verses whatever. 

The very name of Peter Pindar, is an ac- 
quisition to your work. His 'Gregory' is 
beautiful. I have tried to give you a set of 
stanzas in Scots, on the same subject, which 
are at your service. Not that I intend to enter 
the lists with Peter ; that would be presump- 
tion indeed. My song, though much inferu>»' 
in poetic merit, has I think more of the ballad 
simplicity in iU 



LORD GREGORY. 

mirk, mirk is this midnight hour 
And loud the tempests roar ; 

A waeful wanderer seeks thy tower. 
Lord Gregory ope thy door. 

An exile frae her father's ha'p 

And a' for loving thee ; 
At least some piiy on me shaw. 

If love it may na be. 



t thou not eh« groTey 



Lord Gregory, : 

By bonnie Iri 
Where first I own'd that virgin love 

I lang, lang had denied. 

How aften didst thou pledge and tow 
Thou wad for aye be mine ; 

Ajid my fond heart itsel sae true. 
It ne'er mistrusted thine. 

Hard is thy heart. Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast ; 
Thou dart of Heaven, that flashest by, 



Ye mustering thunders from above. 



Ah ope. Lord Gregory, thy door, 

A midaisrht wanderer sighs ; 
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar. 

And lightnings cleave the skies. 

Who comes with woe at this drear night— 

A pilgrim of the gloom. 
If she whose love did once delight. 

My cot shall yield her room. 

Alas ! thou heard'si a pilgrim moHrn, 
That eace nas priz'd by tJie« s 



BURNS— CORBESPONDtNCE. 



~ My most respecrful compliments to the ho- 
koorable gentleman who favoured nie with a 
postscript in >uur last. He shall hear from 
Bie and bis MSS. soon. 



No. XIII. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

20th March, IV 93. 
MARY MORISON. 
rj/ii«_««Bide ye jet." 

Mary, at thy window be. 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour; 
Those smiles and glances let nie bee. 

That make the miser's treasure poor ; 
How blythely wad I bide the stoure* 

A weary slave frae sun to sun ; 
Could 1 the rich reward secure. 

The lovely Wary Moriso«. 

Yestreen when to the trembling strin?. 
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha'. 

To thee my fancy took its wing, 
I sat, but neither heard nor saw ; 

Thu' this was fair, and that was braw* 
And you the toast of a' the town, 

1 sigh'd, and said, araang them a', 

•• Ye are na Mary Morisou. '' 

O Mary, canst thou wreck hi« peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ! 
Or canst thou break that heart of bis, 

Whuse only faut i* loving thee? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie. 

At least be pity to me shown ; 
A thought ungentle caona be 

The thought o' Mary Morisoiu 



4T SEAR SIR, 
The song prefixed is one of my juvenile 
firka, I leave it in your hands. 1 do not 
ink it very remarkable, either for its merits, 
c'.emerits. It is impossible (at least I feel it 
in my stinted powers) to be always original, 
entertaining, and witty. 

What is become of the list, &c. of your songs? 
I shall be out of all temper with you by and by. 
I have always looked on myself as the prince 
f indolent correspondents, and valued myself 
accordingly ; and I will not, canuot bearrivaU 
ship from you, or any body else. 



But should'st thou not poor Marian know, 

I'll turn my feet and part ; 
And think the storms that round me blow. 

Far kinder than thy heart. 

It is but doing justice to Dr Walcott to men- 
tion, that his song is the original. Mr Burns 
•aw it, liked it, and immediately wrote the 
«ther on the same subject, which is derived 
CroiB BO old Setittish ballad of uncertain origin. 



No. XIV. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

March, 179S. 
WANDERING WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Now tired with waudering, baud awa hame. 

Come to my bosom my ae only dearie. 
And tell me thon bring'st me my W illie th« 

Loud blew tbe canld Winter winds at our Dart* 
ing! 
It was nae the blast brought the tear in my 

Now welcome the simmer, and welcome ray 
Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Ye hurricanes rest in the cave o' your slum 

O how your wild horrors a lover alarms : 
Awaken ye breezes, row gently ye bilious. 
And waft my dear laddie auce mair to my 

But if he's forgotten his faithfullest Nannie, 
O still flow between us, thou wide roaring 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
but, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. 



I leave it to you, my dear sir, to determine 
whether the above, or the old •' Through the 
laug Muir " be the best. 



No. XV. 

MR BURNS TO MB THOMSON. 

OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH I 

WITH ALTBRATIONS. 

Ob open the door, some pity to show 

Oh, open the door to me. Oh.* 
Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever proTe true. 

Oh, open the door to me Oh. 

Canld is the blast upon my pale cheek. 
But caulder thy love for me. Oh : 

The frost that freezr-s the life at my heart. 
Is nought to my pains frae thee. Oh. 

The wan moon is setting behind ths white 



I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee. Oh. 



261 DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 

Bhe has open'd the door, she has opeu'd it 



Never to rise again, Oh. 



No. XVL 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

JESSIE. 

Tune — •' Bonnie Dundee. " 

True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the 

And fair are tiie maids on the banks o' the 
Ajr, 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding 

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair ; 
To equal young Jessie, seek Scotland all over; 

To equal young Jessie, jou seek it in vain, 
Grace, beauty, and elegance, fetter ber lover. 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning. 

And sweet is the lily at evening close; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring; 

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law : 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger, 

Her modest demeanor's the jewel of a'. 



No. XVIL 
MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 



productions of your muse t yonr Lord Gregory, 
ia my estimation, is more interesting than 
Peter's, beautiful as his is ! Your ' Here Awa 
Willie' must undergo some alterations to suit 
the air. Mr Erskine and I have been conning 
it over : he will suggest what i» necessary ta 
make them a fit match. * 



* WANDERING WILUE. 

AS ALTERED BY MR ERSKINE AND 
MR THOMSON. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame; 

Come to my bosom my ain only dearie. 
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the 
same. 

Winter-winds blew loud and cauld at our part- 
Fears for my Willie brought teajs in mj 

Welcome now simmer, and vrelcome my 
Willie, 
As simmer to nature, so Willie to me 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave o' your slum- 
How your dread how 

Bloiv soft, ye breezes ! 
And waft my dear Is 



ing a lover alarms ! 
oil swiftly ye billow 



But oh, if he's faithless and minds na his 
Flow still between ns, thou dark-heaving 



Our poet, with his usual judgment, adopted 
tome of these alterations, and rejected others. 
The last edition is as follows : — 



Here a 



my bosom n 
[ think the ; Tell me thou bring's 
It gives me i 

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our pan- 



e my Willie the same. 



Edinburgh, 2d April, 1793. 
I will not recognise the title you give yourself, 
'•the prince of indolent correspendents ;" but 
if the adjective were t< ' 
title would then fit yoi 

pleasure to find you can furnish anecdotes w 
respect to most of the songs : these wil. 
literary curiosity. 

I now s-^nd you mv list of the son?s, which 
1 believe A-ill be found nearly complete. I 
have put (iown the first lines of all the English 
songs, which I.-propose giving in addition to 
the Scottisii verses. If any oilier occurs to you, 
better adapted to the cnaracter of the airs, pray 
mention (hriii, when you favour me with your 
strictures upon every thing else relating to the i Waken y 
work. And waf 

Pleyel has lately sent me a number of the an 

songs, with bis symphcuies and accompani- | 
inents added to them. I wish you were here. But oh, if he's faithless- and minds na hjs 



Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e 
Welcome now simmer, and 'Welcome i 

Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 



Resf,i 



I wild storms, i 
• dread howli 



1 the cave of your sluta* 



T a lover alarms ! 

gently ye billows, 
ly dear laddie ance mair to i 



that I n 



ghts, 






.f thee 






es, by way of dessert after din- Flow still between us thou wide-roaring maim 
iier. There is so much delightful fancy in the May I never see it, may I never (row it, 
symphonies, and such a delicate simplicity in I But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. 
the accompaniments : they are indeed beyond i 

ail praiso. • Several of the alterations seem to be of littU 

lam very much pleased with the several last ; importano* in iheniseives, and were adopted. 



BURNS.— CORKESPONDENCE. 



Tbe gentleman I have mentioned, whose 
fine taste you are no stranger to, is so well 
pleased both with the musical and poetical 
part of our work, that he has volunteered his 
ifisistance, and has already written four songs 
£>r it, which, by his owu desire, ' I send for 
your perusal. 



NcXVnL 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

WHEN WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST 

WAS BLAWN. 

^ir— «• The Mill, Mill 0." 

When wild war's deadSy blast wasblaWJS, 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless. 

And niony a widow mourning. 
I left the lines and tented field. 

Where lang I'd been a lodger, 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A puar and honest sodger. 

A leal light heart was in my breast* 

My hand unstaln'd wi' plunder; 
And for fair Scotia, hame again, 

I cheerr on did wander, 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy, 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy i 

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen. 

Where early life I sported ; 
I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn. 

Where Nancy aft 1 courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling ! 
And turn'd me round to hide the dood 

That in my een was swelling. 

Wi' alter'd voice quoth T, sweet lass. 

Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 
O ! happy, happy may he be. 

That 's dearest to thy bosom : 
My purse is light, I've far to gang. 

And fain wad be thy lodger ; 
I've served my king and country lang. 

Take pity on a sodger. 



it may be presumed, for the sake of suiting the 
words better to the music. The Homeric 
epithet for the sea, dark-heaving, suggested 
by Mr Erskine, is in itself more beautiful, as 
well perhaps as more sublime than wide- 
roaring, which be has retained ; but as it is 
only applicable to a placid state of the sea, or 
at mo.-.t to the swell left on its surface after 
the storm is over, it gives a picture of that 
elpment not so well adapted to the ideas of eter- 
nnl separation, which the fair mourner is sup- 
posed to imprecate. From the original song 
u( • Here awa Willie,' Burns has borrowed 
nothing but the second line and part of the 
first. The superior excellence of this beautiful 
poem will, it is hoped, justify the different 
editioas of it which we have given. 



Sae wistfully she gased on me, . 

And lovelier was than ev»r : 
Quo' she, a sodger ance llo'ed; 

Forget him shall I never : 
Our humble cot, and hamely fare^ 

Ye freely shall partake it, 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't ! 

She gazed— she redden'd like a rose-^. 

Syne pale like ony lily ; 
She sank within my arms, and cried. 

Art thou my ain dear Willie ? 
By Him who made yon sun and skj- 

By whom true love's regarded, 
I am the man ; and thus may still 

True lovers be rewarded. 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame. 
And find thee still true hearted ; 

Tho' poor in gt-ar, we're rich in love. 
And niair we'se ne'er be parted. 

Quo' sue, my grandsire left me gowd, 
Amailin plenish'd fairly ; 

And come, my faithful sodger lad, 
lou'rt welcome to it dearly I 



The bra\e poor sodger n 



MEG 0' THE MILL. 



ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten. 
An ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten f 
She has gotten a couf wi' a claut o' siller. 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 

The Miller was strappin', the Miller was 

ruddy ; 

A heart like a lord and a hue like a lady ; 
The laird was a widdiefu', bleer-ee't knurl : 
She's left the guid fellow and taen the churl. 

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and lov« 

The Laird did address her wi' matter mair 



O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ; 
And wae on the love that's fix'd on a mailia • 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle. 
But, gie me my love, and a fig for the w arid. 



No. XIX. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Ton cannot Imagine tow much this business 
ef composing foi jour publtcmion ha^ added to 
Diy enjojmeuls. What with mj early attach- 
■lent to ballads, your book, &c. ballad-making 
is now as completely my hobby-horse, as ever 
fortification was Uncle Toby's; so I'll e'en 
eanter it away till I corae to the limit of my 
race, (God grant tha'. I may take the right 
side of the winning post!) and then cheerfully 
looking back oii the honest folks with whom I 
have been tiappy, I shall say, or sing, * Sae 
merry as we a' hae been,' and raising my last 
looks to the whole human race, the last words 
of the Toice of Co.la'^' shail be • Good night 
and joy be wi' you a' ! ' So much for my last 
vords ; now for a few present remarks as they 
have occurred at random on looking o*er your 
list. 

The first lines of 'The last time I cameo'er the 
moor,' aud several other liues in il, are beau- 
* tcful : but in my opinion— pardon me, revered 
shade of Ramsay ! the song is unworthy of 
the divine air. I shall try to make, or mend. 
' For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove,' is a 
charming song ; but • Logan burn and Logan 
braes,' are sweetly susceptible of rural ima- 
pery : I'll try that likewise, and if I succeed, 
the other scng may class among the English 
ones. I remember the t«o last lines of a 
▼erse in some of the old songs of < Logan 
Water.' (for I know a good many diflerent 
ones) which I think pretty : 



• My Patie is a lover gay, ' is unequal. « His 
mind is neyer muddy,' is a muddy expression 
indeed. 



This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or 
your book. My song, 'Rigs of Barley,' to 
the same tune, does not altogether please me, 
hut if I can mend it, and thresh a few loose 
sentiments out of it, I will submit it to your 
eonsideration. • The Lass o" Patie's Mill ' is 
one of Ramsay's best songs ; but there is one 
loose sentiment in it, which my much-valued 
friend. Mr Erskine, will take into his critical 
eonsideration. In Sir J. Sinclair's Statistical 
Tolumes are two claims, one, I think, from 
Aberdeenshire, and the other from Ayrshire, 
for the honour of this song. The following 
anecdote, which I had from the present Sir 
William Cunningham, of Robertland, who 
had it of the late John, Eail of Loudon, I can 
on such authorities believe. 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon Cas- 
tle with the then Earl, father to Earl John ; 
and one forenoon, riding, or walking out to- 
gether, his Lordship and Allan passed a sweet, 
romantic spot, on Irwine water, still called 
c Patie's Mill,' where a bonnie lass »*as ' ledd- 



* Burns here calls himself the ' Voice of 
Coila,* in imitation of Ossian, who denomi- 
nates himself the • Voice of Coua. ' ' Sae merry 
as we a' hae been, and ♦ Good night and joy 
be wi' ou a' ' are th* names of two Scottish 



ing hay, bareheaded, on the ereen.' MfLotC 
observed to Allan, that it would be afii.e ibemo 
for a song. Ramsay took the b-iit, and ling- 
ering behind, he composed the tirst sketch of it, 
which he produced at dinner. 

' One day I beard Mary saj,' is a fii.e sungj 
but for consistency's sake, alter the uama 
' Adonis.' Was there ever such banns pub- 
lished, as a purpose of marriage between 'Ado- 
nis and Mary?' I agree with you that mj 
song, ' There's nought but care on every hand, ' 
is much superior to * Poortith cauld.* 'Iho 
original song ' The mill, mill O,' though ex- 
cellent, is, "n account of delicacy, inadmis- 
sible ; still I like the title, and think a Scottish 
song would suit the notes best ; and let your 
chosen song, which is very pretty, follow, aa 
an English set. 'The Banks of the Uee' is, 
you know, literally Langolee to slow time 
Ihe song is well enough, but has tome false 
imagery in it, for instance, 

" And sweetly the nigbtingale sung from tha 



tha 

second place, there never was a nifibtinp- la 
seen or heard on the banks of the Iiee, or on 
the banks of any other river in ScDlland. 
Exotic rural imagery is always comp:'raiively 
flat. If I could hit on another stanza equal 
to « The small birds rejoice, ' &c. 1 do nns df 
honestly avow that I think it asuperior »oii^-* 
• John Anderson my jo'— the song to this tune 
in Johnston's Museum, is my composition, ainl 
1 think it not my worst: If" it suit you, take 
it and welcome. Your collection of sentimen- 
tal and pathetic songs, is, in my opinion, very 
complete; tut not bO your comic ones. Wheia 
are * 1 ullochgorum. Lumps o' puddiu, Tibhio 
Fowler,' and several others, which, in uiy 
humble judgment, are vv ell worthy of preser- 
vaiion. There is also one sentimental song of 
mine in the Museum, which never was knows 
out of the immediate neighbourhood, until X 
got it taken down from a country girl's singing. 
It is called • Craigieburn Wood ;' and in the 
opinion of Mr Clarke, is one of our sweetest 
Scottish songs. He is quite an enthubiast 
aLout it ; and I would take his taste in Scot- 



ish 1 



t the 



You are quite right in inserting the last fiva 
'"n your list, though they are certainly Irish. 
• Shepherds I have lost my love,' is to me a 
hejivenly air — what would you think of a set of 
Scottish verses to it ? I have made one to it a 

good while ago, which 1 think 

. . . . but in its original state is nut quita 
a lady's song. I inclose an altered, not 
amended copy for you, if you choose to set tha 
tuue to il, and let the Irish verses follow, j- 



* It will be found in the course of this cor- 
respondence, that the Bard produced a second 
stanza of 'The Chevalier's Lament,' (to which 
he here alludes) worthy of the first. 

T Mr Thomson, it appears, did not approt* 
of this song, even in its altered state. It does 
not appear in the correspondence : but is prr., 
bably one to be fouud ia bis MSS. brf^ui. 



BURNS— CORRESPONDENCE. 



267 



Mr Erakine's song« are all pretty, but his 
* Luua vale ' is diviue. 

Yours, iic. 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

Edinburgh, April, 1793. 
I rejoice to find, my dear sir, that ballad- 
making continues to be your hobby horse. 
Great pity 'twould be were it oilierwise. I 
hope you will amble it away for many a year 
and " witch the world with your horseman- 

I know there are a good many lively songs 
•f merit that 1 have not put down in the list 
sent yoQ | but I have them all in ray eye. 
* My Patie is a lover gay,' though a little un- 
equal, is a natural and very pleasing song, and 
I humbly think we ought not to displace or al- 
ter it except the last stanza. * 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
April, 1793. 
I have yours, my dear sir, this moment, 
shall answer it aud your former letier, in t 
desultory way of saying whatever comes u 
per most. 

The business of many of our tunes wanti 
ftt the beginning what fiddlers call a starti 
Bote, is often a rub to us poor rhymers. 



^ou may alter to 



My song, < Here awa there awa, ' as mend* 
by Sir Erskine, I euiirely approve of, aud n 
turn vou. + 



•' Yestreen I got a pint of wine, 
A place where body saw ua : 

Yestreen lay on this breast of mine, 
The gowden locks of Anna," 

It is highly characteristic of our Bard, but 
the strain of sentiment does not correspond 
with the airf to which he proposes it should be 
allied. 

* The original letter from Mr Thomson con- 
tains many observations on the Scottish songs, 
and on the manner of adapting the words to 
the music, which at his desire, are suppressed. 
The subsequent letter of Mr Burns refers lo se- 
veral of ihese observations. 
<■ \ The reader has already seen that Barns did 



Give me leave to criticise your ta.^te in the 
only thing in which it is in my opinion repre- 
hensible. You know I ought to know soiiif- 
thing of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiii:tiii, 
and point, you are a complete judge j but thua 
is a quality more necessary than either in a tuii<;, 
and which is the very essence of a baliud, I 
mean simplicity; now, if I mistake not, ihis 
la!>t feature you are a little apt to sacrifice lo 
the foregoing. 

Uamsay, as every other poet, has not been 
always equally happy in his pieces ; still I can- 
not approve of taking such liberties with an 
author as Mr W. proposes doing with • 'I he 
la=t time I came o'er the Moor.' Let a poet, if he 
chooses, take up the idea of another, and work 
it into a piece of his own ; but to mangle the 
works of the poor bard whose luueful tongue 

house — by Heaven 'twould be sacrilege! I 
grant that Mr Ws version is an improve- 
ment ; but I know Mr >V. well, ai^d e=ieein 
him much ; Jet him amend the song as tl^e 
Highlander mended his gun ;— be gave it 
a new stock, and a new lock, a^id a nevr 
barrel. 

1 do not, by this, object to leaving out im« 
proper stanzas, where that can be doi.e v, ithout 
spoiling the whole. One stanza in 'Ihe Lass 
o' Paie's Mill.' must be left out; tbe sou^ 
will be nothing worse for it. I am not sure if 
we can take the same liberty with ' Corn Eigs 
are bonnie.' Perhaps it might want the last 
stanza and be the better for ii. ' Cauld Kail 
in Aberdeen' you must leave with me jt. a 
while. I have vowed to have a soug to tl at 
air, on the lady whojn I attempted to celebrate 
in the verses, * Poortith cauld and restless 
Love. ' At any rate, my other soug, » Greeu 
grow the rashes,' will never suit. That song 
is current in Scotland under the old title, and 
to the merry old tune of that name ; which of 
course would mar the progress of your song lo 
celebrity. Your book will be the standard of 
Scots songs for the future ; let this idea ever 
keep your judgment on the alarm. 

I send a song on a celebrated toast in this 
country to suit ' Bonnie Dundee, ' 1 send y ou 
also a ballad to the « Mill, mill O. 't 

' The last time I came o'er the Moor,' I 
would fain attempt to make a Scots song for, 
and let Ramsays be the Englibh set. You 
shall hear from me soon. When you go lo 
London on this business, can you come by 
Dumfries? 1 have still several MS. Scots air? 
by me which 1 have picked up, mostly from the 
singing of country lasses. They please ma 
vastly; but your learnei Urgs would peihaps 
be displeased with the very feature for which 
1 like them. I call then; simple; jou would 
pronounce them silly. Do you know a fine air 
called 'Jackie Hume's Lament?' 1 have a 
song of consioerable merit to that air. I'll 
enclose you both the song and tune, as I had 



lot finally adopt all of Mr Erskine's altera- 

:}: ITie song to the tune of • Bonnie Dundee 
s that in Nc. XVL The ballad to the • M.ll 
uill O, is that beginning, 

• When wild wars deadly blast was blawjh "• 



DIA510ND CABINET LIBRARY. 



them ready to send to Johnson's Musernn,* I 
seud you likewise to me a beautiful little air, 
which I had taken dowa from viva voce.\ 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 



Tune- 



April, 1793. 
" The last time I came o'er the moor. ' 



Farewell thou stream that winding flows 

Around Maria's dwelling ! 
AJi cruel mein'ry I spare the throes 

Within my bosom 'swelling : 
Condemn 'd to drag a hopeless chain. 

And still in secret languish ; 
To feel a lire in evry vein. 

Yet dare not speak my anguish. 

The wretch of love, nnseen, unknown, 

I fain my crime would cover ; 
The bursting sigh, the unweetiug groan 

Betray the hopeless lover, 
1 know my doom must be despair. 

Thou wilt nor canst relieve me j 
But oh, Maria, hear one prayer. 

For pity 's sake forgive me. 



The 



of thy tongue I heard. 
Nor wist while it enslaved me ; 
saw thiue eyes yet uoihing fear'd, 
'Till fears no more had saved me, 
lie unwary sailor thus aghast. 
The wheeling toneut viewing; 
" ' ■ :ling horrors yields at last 
rwhelming ruin. 



'Mid 



MV DEAR SIR, 

I had scarcely pat my last letter into the post- 
office, when I took up the subject of ' The last 
time 1 came o'er the Moor,' and ere I slept 
drew the outlines of the foregoing. How far I 
have succeeded, I leave on this, as on every 
other occasion, to you to decide. I own my 
vanity is flattered, when you give my songs a 
place in your elegant and superb work ; but to 
be of service to the work is my first wish. As 
I bave often told you, I do not in a single in- 
eianoe wish you, out of compliment to me, to in- 
seit any thing of mine. One hint let me give 
you — whatever Mr Pleyel t^oes, let him not al- 
ter one iota of the original Scottish airs ; I 
mean, in the song department ; but let our 
national music preserve its native features. 
They are. 1 own, frequently wild and irreduc- 
ible to the more modern rules ; but on *Jiat very 



3f The song here mentioned is that given in 
No, XVIII. • O ken ye what Meg o' the mill 
has gotten.' This soug is surely Mr Burns 's 
own writing, though he does not generally 
praise his own songs so much. — Note by Mr 
2^/iomson. 

f The air here mentioned is that for which 
ke wrote tlie ballad of ' Bonny Jean,' to be 
Lsaad, p, 203. 



No. XXIII 

MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 26th April, 1793. 
I heartily thank you, ray dear sir, for your la 
two letters, and the songs which accompanied 
them. I am always both instructed and en- 
tertained by your observations ; and the frank- 
ness with which you speak out your mind, 
to me highly agreeable. It is very possibli 
may not have the true idea of simplicity in 
composition, I confess there are several songs 
of Allan Ramsay's for example, that I think 
silly enough, which another person more con- 
versant than I have been with country people, 
would perhaps call simple and natural. 



I 



the low 



i of s 



vill r 



they 



generally, if copied precise 
are, Tiie poet, like the painter, must select 
what will form an agreeable as well as a natu- 
ral picture. On this subject it were easy to 
enlarge ; but at present suffice it to say, that I 
consider simplicity, rightly understood, as a 
most essential quality in composition, and the 
ground-work of beauty in all the arts. I will 
gladly appropriate your most interesting new 
ballad • When wild war's deadly blast,' &c. 
to the 'Mill, mill, O, ' as well as the other 
two songs to their respective airs ; but the 
third and fourth lines of the first verses must 
undergo some little alteration in order to suit 
the music, Pleyel does not alter a single note 
ofthesonss. That would be absurd indeed! 
With the'airs which he introduces into the 
sonatas, I allow him to take such liberties as 
he pleases, but that has nothing to do with the 



P, S. ^I wish yon would do as yon proposed 

with your • Rigs o* Barley. ' If the loose 
sentiments were threshed out of it, I will find 
an air for it ; but as to this there is do hurry. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

June, 1793. 
hen I tell you, my dear sir, that a friend of 
ne, in whom 1 am much interested, has 
len a sacrifice to these accursed times, you 
11 easily allow that it might unhinge me for 
ing any good among ballads. My own loss, 
to pecuniary matters, is trifling; but the 
al ruin of a much loved friend, is a loss in- 
;d. Pardon my seeming inattention to your 



it alter the disputed lines in the • Mill, 
'* What you think a defect I esteem 



* The lines were the third and fourth. 
See p. 197. 

«« Wi' raony a sweet babe fatherless. 
And monj a widow mourning. " 



BURNS CORRESPONDiir* 



ai a positive beanty ; so yon see how doctors 
differ. 1 shall now, with as much alacrity as 
I can musterj go on with your commands. 

You know Fraser, the hautboy player in 
Edinburgh — he is here instructing a band of 
music for a fencible corps quartered ia this 
country. Among many of the airs that please 
me, there is one well known as a reel by the 
name of ' The Quaker's wife ;♦ and which I re- 
member a grand aunt of mine used to sing by 
the name of 'L^ggeram cosh, my bonnie 
lass.' Mr Fraser plays it slow, and wil 
expression that quite charms me. I became 
such an enthusiast about it, that I made a 
for it, which I here subjoin ; and enclose 
Eraser's set of the tune. If they hit your 
fancy they are at your service ; if not, rt 
me the tune, and I will put it in Johns 
l^Iuseum. 1 think the song is not in my worst 
manner. 

Tune — " Liggeram cosh. " 

BJythe hae I been on yon hill, 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free. 

As the breeze flew o'er me : 
Now nae langer sport and play. 

Mirth or sang can please me, 
Lesley is sae fair and coy. 

Care and anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heavy is the task 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I dow nocht but glowr, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing ! 
If she winna ease the thraws. 

In my bosom swelling ; 
Underneath the grass green sod. 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 

I should wish to hear how this pleases you. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 



January, 5, 1793. 
, my dear sir, felt your bosom 



thos 



ighty viUai 



who 



ide kingdom 
provinces, and lay 



kingc 
nations waste out of lh( 
lion, or often from still more ignoble passions ? 
In a mood of this kind to-day, I recoUec'ed 
the air of • Logan water ;' and it occurred to 



As our poet had maintained a long silence, 
and the first number of Mr Thomson's Musical 
Work was in the press, this gentleman ven- 
tured, by Mr Erskine's advice, to substitute 
for them in that publication, 

" And eyes again with pleasure beamed 
That had been bleared with mourning." 

Though better suited to the music, these lines 
are inferior to the original. This is the only 
alteration adopted by Mr Thomson, which 
Bcras did not upprote or at least assent to. 



ne that its querulous melody probably ha( 

t the tyra 
and < 



_.iginfrom , j. ^^ 

swelling suffering heart, fired i 
strides of some public destroy( 
whelmed with private distrf 
• • Iflh 



ihec 



equence 

^ y tliinff 

all like justice to my feelings, the following 
ng, composed in three quarters of au hour's 
-■'■•-■--- - my elbow chair, ought to have 



e merit. 

Tune — "Logan water." 

O, Logan sweetly didst thon glide. 
That day I was ii)y Willie's bride; 
And years sinsyne hae o'er us run. 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now the flowery banks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear. 
While my dear lad maun face his faes. 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 

Again the merry month o' May, 

Has made our hills and valleys gay ; 

The birds rejoice in leafy bowers. 

The bees hum round the breathing flowers : 

Blythe mornin<; lifts his rosy eye, 

And evening's tears are tears of joy : 

My soul delightless, a' surveys. 

While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush : • 
Her faithtu' mate will share her toil. 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile ; 
But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, ) 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer. 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days. 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

O wae upon you, men o' state, ' 

That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 
As ye make many a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ;* 
But soon may peace bring happy days. 
And Wiilie hame to Logan braes ! 

Do you know the following beautiful liti 
..aErraent, in Witherspoon's Collection of Sci 

Air — <• Hughie Graham. " 



" gin my love were yon red rose, 
That grows upon th" castle wa*. 

And I mysel' a drap o' dew. 
Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 

♦' Oh, there beyond expression blestt 
I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; 

Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest. 
Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light. " 

This thought is inexpressibly beautiful 
nd quite, so far as I know, original. It ^s i< 
short for a song, else I would forswear yo 



* Originally, 

" Ye mind ua 'mid your cruel joys, 
ITie widow's tears, the orphan*8 eri«t«" 



D[A.>JOND CABINET LIBRARV. 



ftito'retber, wn'ess ynu pave U a place. I have 
ofieii tried to eke a stuiiza to it, but in vain. 
After balancini; mjself for a musing five mi- 
nutes, on the hiiid-leps of mjf elbow chair, I 
produced the iollowiiiff. 

The verses are far inferior to the foregoing', 
I fraiiicly confess : but if Vforthy of insertion 
nt all, they might be first iu place : as every 
iioei, who knows any thing of his trade, will 
husband his best thoughts for a coucludiug 
stroke. 

O were my love yon lilach fair, 
Wi' purple blossoms to the springs 

And I a bird to shelter there 

When wearied on my little wing' 



How I wad mourn, whei 



Byo 



ivild, a 



But I wuu !>iii^ Oil wuiiion wing. 

When jouthfu' May its bloom renew 'd. 



No. XXVI. 

MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

Monday, \st Juli/, 1793, 
1 om extremely sorry, my good sir, that any 
thing should happen to unhinge you. The 
time's are terribly out of tune, and when har- 
mony will be restored, heaven knows. 

The first book of songs, just published, will 
be despatched to you along with this. Let 
me be favoured with your opinion of it frankly 
and freely. 

I shall certainly g'lve a place to the song you 
have written for the 'Quakers Wife;' ' 
^uile enchanting. Pray, will you return 
list of songs. With such airs added to it as 
think ought to be included. The business 
rests entirely on myself, the gentleman who 
originally agreed to join in the speculation 
having requested to be off. No matter ; a loser 
I cannot be. The superior excellence of the 
work will create a general demand for it, as 
soon as it is properly known. And were the 
gale even slower than what it promises to be, 
1 should be somewhat compensated for my 
labour, by the pleasure I should receive from 
the music. I cannot express how much I am 
obliged to you for the exquisite new sor'gs you 
ere sending me ; but thanks, my friend, are a 
pjor return for what you have done ; as I shall 
bf beneiiled by the publication, you must suf- 
fer me to inclose a small mark of my grati- 
tude,* and to repeat it afterwards when I 
find it convenient. Vo not return it, for by 
heaven, if you do, our correspondence is at an 
end : and though this would be no loss to you, 
it would mar the publication, which under 
jour auspices, cannot fail to be respectable and 



elegant one will follow for the English singer. 
YoiiT apostrophe to statesmen is admirabfc, 
but I am not sure if it is quite suitable to the 
supposed gentle character of (he fair iBourner 
who speaks it. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
dull/ 2, 1703. 

MY DEAR SIR, 
I have just finished the following ballad, and 
as I do think it in my best style, 1 send it you. 
Mr Clarke, who wrote down the air from Mrs 
ns* wood.nole wild, is very fond of it ; and 
has given it a celebrity by teaching it to some 

ung ladies of the first fashion here. If vou 
not like the air enough to give it a place in 

ur collection, please return it. The soug 

u may keep, as 1 remember it. 

There was a lass, and she was fair. 

At kirk and market to be seen ; 
When a' the fairest maids were met. 

The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mammie's wark» 

And aye she sang sae merrily ; 
The blythe=t bird upon the bush 

Had ue'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lint white's nes« ; 

And frost will blight the fairest llowers. 
And love will break the soundest rest. 

Young Robie was t4ie brawest lad, 
The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 

And he had owsen, sheep and kye. 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryst. 
He danced wi' Jeanie on the down ; 

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist. 
Her heart v 



Wednesday morning. 
I thank you for your delicate additional 



nt, her peace was stown. 



As in the bosom o' the stream. 

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en; 

So trembling pure was tender love 
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean.* 

And now she works her mammie's warkf 
And aye she sighs wi' care and pain ; 

Yet wist na what her ail might be. 
Or what wad mak her wee! again. 

But did na Jeanie's heart loup light. 
And did na joy blink in her e'e. 

As Robie tauld a tale o' love 
Ae e'enin, on the lily lea ? 

The sun was sinking iu the west. 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 

His cheek to hers he fondly prest. 
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love : 



* Five PsuuJs sterling. 



BURNS — CORRESPONDENCE. 



9 Jeanle fair, I lo'e thee dear; 

canst thou tbink to fancy me ? 
Or wilt tuou leave thy mammie's cot, 

AQd learn to teat the farms wi' mew 

At barn or byre thon shall na drudge* 
Or naethinff else to trouble thee ; 

But stray amang the heatber-bells, 
And teat the waving corn wi' me* 

Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

Sne had na will to say him na : 
At leugih she blush'd a sweet consent. 

And love was aye between them twa. 

1 have some thoughts of inserting in your 
index, or in my notes, the names of the fair 
ones, the themes of ray gongs. 1 do not mean 
the name at lull ; but dashes or asterisms, so 
as in<!:enuity may find beui out. 

The ha-oine of th» foregoing is Miss M. , 
daughter to Mr ftL of D., one of your sub<)crib- 
ers. I have not paint d her in the rank which 
she holds in life but u. the dress and character 
of a cottager. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

Jub/, :793. 

C oMure yon, my dear sir, that yon truly hurt 
me with your pecuniary parcel. It degrades 
me in my own eyes. However, to return il would 
Euvour of affectation ; but as to any more traf- 
<i3 of that debtor and creditor kind, I swear 
by that Honour which crowns the upright sta- 
tue of Robert Burns 's Integrity— on the least 
motion of it, I will indignantly spurn the by. 
past transaction, and from that moment com. 
mence entire stranger to vou 1 Burns's char- 
acter for generosity of sentiment and indepen- 
dence of mind will, I trust, long outlive any 
of hi8 wants, which the cold unfeeling ore can 
supply: Ht least I will take care that such a 
cuaracter be shall deserve. 

'I'hunk you for my copy of your publication. 
Never did my eyes behold, in any musical 
work, such elegance and correctness. Your 
preface, too, is admirably written; only, your 
partiality to me has made you say too much ; 
bewever, it will bind me down to double every 
effort in the future progress of the work. The 
following are a few remarks on the songs in the 

to you, ao I may be often tautological, or per- 
haps contradictory. 

' '1 he Flowers of the Forest ' is charming as 
a poe'ii ; and should be, and must be, set to 
the notes : but, though out of your rule, the 
three stanzas beginning, 

** 1 faae seen the smiling o' fortune beguil- 



«re worthy of a place, were it but to immor- 
talize the author of tbem, who is an old lady of 
my loquaintance, and at this moment living in 
Edinburgh. She is a Mrs Cock burn ; I for- 



The old ballad, • I wish I were where Helen 
lies' issilly tocontemptibility.A My alteration 
of it in Johnson's is not much better. Mr Pin- 
kerlon, in his, what he calls. Ancient Ballads 
(many of them notorious, though beautiful 
enough forgeries) has the best set. It is full of 

In my next, I will suggest to your consider 
ation a few songs whicli may have escaped 
your hurried notice. In the meantime, allow 
me to congratulate you now, as a brother of 
the quill. You have committed your characier 
and fame; which will now be tried, for ages 
to come, by the illustrious jury of the Sons and 
Daughters of Taste — all whom poesy can 
please, or music charm. 

Being a bard of nature, 1 have some preten- 
sions to second sight ; and I am warranted by 
the spirit to foretell and affirm, that your great 
grandchild will bold up your volume, and sav, 
with honest pride, •• This so much admiied se- 
lection was the work of my a 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

Edinburgh, August, 1793. 

DEAR sin, 
I had the pleasure of receiving your last two 
letters, and am happy to find you are quite 
pleased with the appearance of the first book. 
When you cume to hear the songs kung and 
accompanied, you will be charmed with tbem. 

* The bonnie brucket Lassie, ' certainly da- 
serves better verses, and I hope you will match 
her. ♦ Cauld kuil in Aberdeen,' 'Let me in 
this ae night,' and several of the livelier airs, 
wait the muse's leisure : these are peculiarly 
worthy of her choicest gifts; besides, you'll 
'notice, that in the airs of this sort, the sinper 
can always do greater justice to the poet than 
An the slower airs of * The bush aboou Tra- 
Iquair,' * Lord Gregory,* and the like ; for in 
llhe manner the latter are frequently sung, you 
must be contented with the sound without the 
sense. Indeed both the airs and words are 
disguised by the very slow, languid, psalm- 
binging style in which they are too often per. 
formed : they lose animation and expression 
altogether, and instead of speaking to the 
mind, or touching the heart, they cloy upon the 
ear, and set us a yawning ! 

Your ballad, • There was a lass and she was 
fair,' is simple and beautiful, and shall un> 
doubtedly grace my collection. 



* There is a copy of this ballad giveD in 
the account of the parish of Kirkpatrick- Flem- 
ing, (which contains the tomb of Fair Welen 
Irvine,) in the sl.ilis 

Vol. Xill. p. 275, ! 



DIAJMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



No. XXX. 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
Ausnsl, IT 93. 

My DEAR THOMSON, 
I hold the pen for onr friend Clarke, who, at 
present, is s'udjin^ the lEUsic of the spheres 



lify that matter, he c; 



t stoop to terrestrial 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
Avgusl, 1793. 
Your objection, my dear sir. to the passages 
in ray son^ of ' Logan Waier, ' is nght-in one 
instance ; but it is^ difficult to me id it : if I 
can. I will. The other passage you object to 
does not appear in the same light to me. 

I hare tred my hand on • Robin Adair,' and 
you will probably think with liille success ; 
but it is such a cursed, cramp, out of the way 
measure, that I despair of doing any thing 
belter to iU 

PHILLIS THE FAIR. 
Tune — •• Robin Adair. ' ' 

While larks with little wing, 

Fann'd the puie a r, 
Tastin? the breathing spring. 

Forth I did fare ; 
Gav the sun's golden eye, 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high ; 
Sucn thy morn '. did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 

In each bird's careless song. 

Glad, I did share ; 
While yon wild flowers among, 
Chance led me there ; 
weet to the opening day, 
osebuds bent the dewy spray ; 
tich thy bloom, did I say, 
Phillis the fair. 

Down in a shady walk. 

Doves cooing were, 
I mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caueht in a snare : 
So kind may fortune be, 
Su^h make'his destiny ! 
He who would injure thee, 

Phiilis the fair. 

30 much for namby-pamby. I may, after 
tU, »r» my hand on it in Scots verse^ There 
1 always find myself most at home. 



I have just put the last hand (o the song;. 
meant for • Cauld Kail in Aberdeen. ' If ij 
suits you to insert it, I shall be pleased.-aa 
the heroine is a favourite of mine : if not, I 
shall also be pleased because I wish, and will 
^^ ^^ *?T,^^* '^°" ^°' decidedly on the basi. 
ness.w Tis a tr.bu:e as a man of taste, and 
as an editor, whicn you owe yourself. 



No. XXXIL 

MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 
August, 1793. 

MY GOOD STR, 
I consider it one of the most ogreeable circnm 
stances attending this publication of ra ne, 
that it has procured me so many of your much 
valued epistles. Pray make my acknowledff. 
* St Stephen for the tunes ! fell him'l 
e justness of his com;;laint on mv 






a his lac 



c post, 



•ipt to 



yoar jeu d'egprit ; which I perused more than 
once without discover. ng exactly whether your 
discussion was music, astronomy, or politics ; 
though a sagacious friend, acquainted with the 
CO ivivial ha'jits of the poet and the muscian, 
oiiered me a bet of two to one, you were just 
drowning cara together ; that an empty bowl 
was the only fcing that would deeply afi'ect 
you, and the only matier you could then study 
how to remedy ! 

I shall be glad to see you give 'Robin 
Adair' a Scottish dress. Peter is furnisbiiig 
him with an English suit for a change, and 
you are well maiebed toffeiher. Robin's air 
is excellent, though he certaii:ly has an out of 
the way measure as ever poor Parnassian 
«ight was plagued with. I wish you would 
invoke the muse for a single elegant stanza to 
be substituted for the concluding objectionable 
verses of • Down the burn Davie,* to that ibis 
most exquisite song may no longer be excluded 
from good company. 

Mr Allan has made an inimitable drawing 
from your ' John Anderson my Jo,' which I 
ain to have engraved, as a frontispiece to the 
humorous class of songs; you will be quite 
charmed with it, I promise you. The old 
couple are seated by the fireside. Mrs Ander- 
son in great good humour, is clapping John's 
shoulders, while he smiles ana look's at her 
with such glee, as to show that he fully recol- 
lects the pleasant days and nights when ibey 
were « first acquent. * The drawing would do 
honour to the pencil of Teniers. 



No. XXXIIL 

MR BURNS TO 3IR THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

That crinknm-cranbaiB tone ' Robin Adair, 

has run so in my head, and I succeeded so il 

in my last attempt, that I have vf 



I 

I 



I 



* The song gent herewith is that in p. 193. 



I 



BURNS. — CORRESPONDENCE. 



■mraiiig*9 walk, «ae essay more. You, mj 
dear sir> will remember an unfortunate part of 
our worthy friend C.'s story, which happened 
about three years ago. That struck mv fancy, 
and I eadeavoured to do the idea justice, as 
follows : 



There would I weep my woes, 
There seek mv last repose, 
Till grief my eyes should close. 
Ne'er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, 
▲11 thy fond plighted vows— fleeting as air ! 

To thy new lover hie. 

Laugh o'er tUy perjury. 

Then in thy bosom try, 
What peace is there. 

By the way, I have met with a musical 
Highlander, in Breadalbane's fencibles, which 
are quartered here, who assures me that he 

songs to bo h 'Robin Adair' and ' Grama- 
ehree. * They certainly have more of the 
Scottish than Irish taste in them. 

This man comes from the vicinity of Inver- 

Ireland that couid bring tiiem ; except, what 
I shrewdly suspect to be the case, the wander- 
ii:g minstrels, harpers, and pipers, used to gc 
frequently errant lurough the wilds both of 
Scotland and Ireland, and so some favourite 

airs might be common to both A case in 

point — •They have lately, in Ireiaud, published 
an Irish air, as they say, sailed •* Caun du de- 
lish." The fact is, in a publication of Corri': 
a great while ago, you will iiiid the same aii 
called a Highland one, with a Gaelic sonj si 
.0 it. Its name there, I think, is •• Ora 
Gaoii," and a tine air it is. Uo ask hone 
Allan, or the Rev. Gaelic Parson, about these 
matters. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 



MT DBAB SIR, 
• Let me in this ae 

am glad you are pleased with my song, « 
I a cave,' &c. as I liked it myself. 

I walked out yesterday evening, with a vo- 
lume of the Museum in my hand ; when turn- 
ing up 'Allan Water,' " What numbers shall 
the muse repeat," &c as the words appeared 
to me rather unworthy of so fine an air : and 
recollecting that it is ou yonr list, I sat and 
raved under the shadow of an old tiiorn, till I 
wrote out one to suit the measure. I may be 
wrong, but I think it not in my worst style. 
You must know, that in Ramsay's Tea-Table, 
where the modern song first appeared, the au- 
•ieat name of the tuue, AUaa says, is ' Allan 



Water,* or • My love Annie's ver? bonnie. ' 
This last has certainly been a line of the origi- 
nal song ; so I took up the idea, and, as yoa 
will see, have introduced the line in its place, 
which I presume it formerly occupied : though 
I likewise give yoa a " choosing' line,'' should 
that not hit the cut of your fancy. 

Jy Allan stream I chanced to rove. 

While Phcebus sank beyond Benleddi ; * 
The winds were whispering through tha 

The yeliow corn was waving ready : 
I lisJen'd to a lover's sang. 

And thought on youiht'u' pleasures monj I 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang— . 

O Gearly do I lo'e thee Annie, f 

O happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle mak it eerie ; 
for ever sorrow stain the hour. 

The place and time I met my dearie. 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

?, binkin said, "I'm thine forever!* 
e mony a kiss the seal impr^ss'd, 
a sacred tow, we ne'er should sever. 

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae. 

The simmer joYS the flocks to follow : 
How cheery through her shortening day. 

Is autumn in her weeds o' yellow ; 
But can they melt the glowing heart. 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, 
Or tlirough each nerve the rapture dart. 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure. 

Bravo ! say I ; it is a good song. Should 
you think so too, (not eUe) you can set tha 
music to :t, and let the other follow as Eng- 

Autuma is my propitious season. I make 
more versea in it than in all the year else. 
God bless you I 



No. XXXV. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

Aususi, 1793. 
Is « Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad,* 
one of 1 our airs ? I admire it much : aud yes- 
terday I set the following verses to it. Urbani, 
wno n I met with here, begged them of uie, aa 
he admires the air much ; but as I understand 
that he looks with rather an evil e>e on your 
work, I did not choose to comply. However, 
if the song does not suit your taste, I may 
possibly send it to him. The set of the air 
which I had in my eye, is in Johuson's Mu- 
seum. 



* A mountain west of Strath-Allan, 3009 
feet high — R. B. 

I Or, «• O my love Annie's very bonnie.** 
R. B. 

X In some of the MSS. the first four liiMi 
ran thus : 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Tho' father ard mither and a' should gae 

O whistle and I'll eome to you, my lad. 

But warily tent when you come to court me. 
And come nae unless the back-yet be ajee ; 
Sjne up the back-t.tyle, and let nae body tee. 
And come as ye were nae comin' to me. 
And come, &c. 

O whistle, iic. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye cared nae a flie ; 
But steal me a bliuk o' your bonnie black e'e, 
Yet look as ye were nae lookiu' at me. 
Yet look, &C. 

O whisQe, kc. 

Ay vow and protest that ye care nae for me. 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court nae anither though joking ye be, 
P'or fear that site wyle jour fancy frae me. 
For fear, Ac, 

O whistle, &c 

Anothei favourite air of mine is • The muck- 
in o' Gtiordie's byre.' When sung slow, with 
eXj)ressiou, 1 have wished that it had had bet- 
ler poetry ; that I have endeavoured to eupply 
as tollows : 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 

I'o mark the sweet flowers as they spring : 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Oi Phillis to muse and to sing. 



Awa wi' yonr belles and your beautieB, 
i'hey ne\er wi' her can compare, 

Wbatver has met with my Phillis, 
Haa met wi' the queen o' the fair. 

The daisy amused my fond fancy. 
So aiiltjss, so simple, so wild; 

Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, 
For she is Simplicit)*s child. 



"^11 



The rosebud's the blnsh o 

Her sweet balmy lip when ^tis presi'd ; 
Bow fair and how pure is the lily. 

But fairer and purer her breast. 



Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour 
They ..e'er wi' my Phillis can Vie, 

flcr breath is the breath o' the woodbin 
it* dew-drop o' diamond her eye. 



Her voice is the song of the morning 

That wakes through the green-spreading 

When Phoebus peeps over the mountains. 
On mus'C and pleasure, and love. 
Awa, &C. 



But beauty, how frail and how fltufing. 
The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 

"While worth in the mind o' my Philli* 
Will flourish without a decay.* 
Awa, &c. 

Mr Clarke begs you to give Miss Phillis a 
corner in your book, as she is a particular 
flame of his. She is a Miss P. M., sister to 
bonnie Jean. They are both pupils of bis. 
You shall hear from me, the very first ^ist 1 
get from my rhyming mtU. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
Augwt, 1793. 
That tune • Canld Kail,' is such a favourite of 
yours, that I once more roved out yesterday 
for a gloamiu-shot at the muses ;t when the 
muse that presides o'er the shores of Nith, or 
rather my old inspiring dearest nymph, Coila, 
whispered me the following. 1 have two rea- 
sons for thinking tbat it was my early, sweet» 
simple inspirer tl/at was by my elbow, 
" smooth gliding without step," and pouring 

ig on my glowing fancy. In the first 

.r„«o T lafi n„■,^,.*s nativp 



O whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo, 

O WGistle and I'll come to thee, my jo ; i o- 

Tho' father and mother and a' should say no, \ to be adopied in England. A gloamin-shot, 

O whisile and I'll come to thee, my jo. twilight interview. 



place, srnce I left Coila's native haunts, not a 
fragment of a poet has risen to cheer her soli- 
tary musings, by catching inspiration from her; 
so I more Uian suspect that she has followed 
me hither, or at least makes me occasional 
visits ; secondly, the last stanza of this song 
I send you iu the very words that Coila taught 
me many years ago, and which I set to an old 
Scots reel in Johnson's Museum. 

Air—" Canld Kail. " 

Come let me take thee to my breast. 
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder. 

And 1 shall spurn as vilest dust. 
The warld's wealth and grandeur: 

And do I hear my Jeanie own, 
Tliat equal transports move her ? 

I ask for dearest life alone 

j That I may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure ; 
I'll seek nae mair o* heaven to share, 

Tiian sic a moment's pleasure: 
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 

1 swear I'm thine for ever I 



If yoa think the above will suit your idea o* 
your favourite air, I shall be highly pleased. 



This song, certainly beautiful, would ap- 
r to more advantage without the chorus ; 
s indeed the case with several other bongt 
ur author. 

Gloamin, — twilight, probably from gloom- 
' beauuful poetical word which ought 



II 

I 



BUKNS. — CORRESPONDENCE. 



« The last time 1 cam o'er the Noor,' I cannot 
Dieddle witli, as to mending it : and the musi- 
ch\ world have been so long accustomed to 
Bamsay's words, that a different song, though 
positively' super'or would not be so well re- 
ceived. I am not fond of choruses to songs, 
so i uave uoi made one for the foregoing. 



No. XXXVII. 

MB THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

August 1793. 

DAINTY DAVIB. 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green spreading bowers ; 
And now comes in my happy hours, 
To wander wi' my Davie. 



Meet me on the warlock knowe. 
Dainty Davie, dainty Uavie, 

T'll , - - . 



The crystal waters round us fa'. 
The merry birds are lovers a', 
Tlie scented breezes round us biaw, 
A waudering wi' my Davie. 
Meet me^ Sec. 

Whea purple morning starts the hare 
To steal upon her early fare. 
Then through the dews I will repair. 
To meet my faithfu' Davie. 
Meet me, &c. 

When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws o* nature's rest, 
I flee to his arms I lo'e best, 
Aud that's my ain dear Davie. 



Meet me on the warlock knowe^ 

Honnie Davie, dainty Davie, 
There I'll spend the day wi' you, 

My ain dear dainty Davie.* 

So much for Davie. The chorus, you know, 
is to the low part of the tune. See Clarke's 
te>. of it in the Museum. 

N. B. In the Museum they have drawled 
out the tune to twelve lines of poetry, which 

is nonsense. Four lines of soag, and 

four of chorus, is the way. 



* Dainty Davie is the title of an old Scottish 
gong, from which Burns has taken nothing but 
lb« title and the measure. 



No. XXXVIII. 
MR THOMSON TO MR BURKS. 

EdinburgJi, 1st Sept. 1793. 

MY DEAR SIR, 
Since writing you last, I have received half % 
dozen songs, with which I am delighted be- 
yond expression. The humour and fancy of 
•Whistle and I'll come to you, ray !ad, ' will 
render it nearly as great a favourite as * Duncan 
Gray. ' • Come let me take thee to my breast , ' 
' Adown winding Nith,* and * By Allan 
stream,' &c. are full of imagination and feel- 
ing, and sweetly suit the airs for which 
they are intended. * Had I a cave on some 
wild distant shore,' is a striking and afi"ecting 
composition. Our friend, to whose story it 
refers, read it with a swelling heart, I assure 
you. The union we are now forming, I tbiiiU, 
can never bo broken ; these songs of yours will 
descend with the music to the latest posterity, 
and will be fondly cherished «rO long as genius, 
taste, and sensibility exist in our island. 

While the muse seems so propitious, I 
think it right to inclose a list of all the fa- 
vours I have to ask of her, no fewer than 
twenty and three ! I have burdened the pleas- 
ant Peter with as many as it is probable lie 
will attend to: most of the remaining airs 
would puzzle the English poet not a little ; 
they are of that peculiar measure and rhythm, 
that they mast be familiar to him who writes 
for them. 



No. XXXIX. 
MR BUitNS TO MR THOMSON. 
SepL 1793. 
You may readily trust, my oear sir, that any 
exertion in my power is heartily at your ser- 
vice. But one thing I must hint to you ; the 
very name of Peter Pindar is of great service 
to your publication, so get a verse from him 
now and then ; though 1 have no objection, as 
well as I cau, to bear the burden of the busi- 
ness. 

You know that my pretensions to musical 
taste, are merely a few of nature's instincts, 
untaught and untutori-d by art. For this rea- 
son, many musical compositions, particularly 
where much of the merit lies in counterpoint ; 
however they may transport and ravish the 
ears of you connoisseurs, affect my siniple 
lug no otherwise than merely as melodiou- dm. 
On the other hand, by way of amends, I am 
delighted with many little melodies, which the 
learned musician despises as silly and insipid. 
I do not know whether the old air ♦ Hey tuilie 
taittie' may rank among this number; but well 
I know that with Frazer's hautboy, it has of- 
ten filled my eyes with tears. There is a tra- 
dition, which I have met with in many placej 
of Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce 's march 
at the battle of Bannockburn. 1 his ttioughtf 
in my solitary wanderings, warmed me to 4 



878 

pitch of enthnsiasm on the theme of Liberty 
tad Independence, which I threw into a kind 
pf Scottish ode, fitted to the air that one rnisht 
luppose to be the gallant Royal Scot's address 
to his heroic followers on that eventful morn- 

BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS. 



To its own Tune. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots wbam Bruce has aftenled; 
Welcome to jour gorj bed, 
Or to victorie. 

Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lour ; 
See approach proud Edward's power- 
Chains and slaverie ! 



DUMOND CAi^CET LIBRARY. 



Let him turn and flee. 

Wha for Scotland's king and law, 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw. 
Freeman stand or Free-man fa'. 
Let him follow me ! 

Bt oppression's woes and pains I 

By jour sons in servile chains! 

We will drain our dearest veins. 

But they shall be free j 

ay the proud usurpers low I 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
I/iierly'e in every blow I 
Let us Do or Die t 



■I 



No. XL. 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

Sept 1793. 
I dare say, my dear sir, that you will begia 
to think my correspondence is pfirsecutioii. 
No matter, I can't help it ; a ballad is my 
hobby-horse; which, thoush otherwise a sim- 
ple sort of harmless, idiotical beast enough, 
has yet this blessed headstrong property, that 
when once it has fairly made off with a hap- 
less wight, it gets so enamoured with the 
tinkle-gingle, tinkle-gingle of its own bells, 
that it is sure to run poor Pil-garlx, the bed- 
lam jockey, quite beyond any useful point or 
post ill the common race of man. 

The following song I have composed for 
• Gran gaoil, the Hit hland air that you tell mej 
in vour last, you have resolved to give a place 
to in your book. I have this moment finished 
the song ; so you have it glowitg from the 
If it suit jou, well ! if not, 'tis also 



weU: 



Tune — " Oran-gaoil.' 



must part. 



Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart; 
Severed from thee can I survive — 

But faie has will'd, and v 
I'll often greet this surging 

Yon distant isle wili often hail : 

E 'en here I took the last farewell ; 

There latest mark'd her vanish 'd sail. " 

Along the solitary shore. 

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry. 
Across the rolling, dashing roar, 

1 westward turn my wistful eye : 
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say. 

Where rjow my Naniy's patli may be! 
While tiirough thy sweets she loves to stray^ 

O tell me does she muse ou me ! 



So may God ever defend the cause of Truth 
and Liberty, as he did that day ! — Amen. 

P. S. — 1. showed the air to Urban I, who 1 
highly pleased with it, and begged me to make 
soft verses tor it : but I had no idea of gi ' 
myself any trouble on the subject, till the s 
dental recollection of that glorious struggle for 
freedom, associated with the glowing ideas of 
some other struggles of the same nature, not 
quite so arcieni, roused my rhyming mania. 
Clarke's set of the tune, with his bass, you 
■will find ill the Museum ; though I am afraid 
that the air is not what will entitle it to a place 
itt your elegant selection. 



*'Thi8 noble strain was conceived by our 
foet during a storm among the wilds of Glen- 
Ken, in Galloway. A more finished copy will 
fee found afterwards, ^ 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 
Edinburgh, btk Sept 1793. 
I believe it is generally allowed that the great- 
est modesty is the sure attendant of the great- 
est merit. While you are sending me verse* 
that even Shakspeare might be proud to own, 
you speak of theiu as if they were ordinary pro- 
ductions ! Your heroic ode is to me the ncv- 
blest composition of the kind in the Scottish 
language. I happened to dine yesterday with 
a party of your friends, to whom 1 read it. 
I'hey were all charmed with it, entreated me 
to find out a suitable air for it, and reprobated 
the idea of giving it a tuue so totally devoid of 
interest or grandeur as 'Hey tuttie taittie.' As- 
suredly your partiality for this tune must arise 
from the ideas associated in your mind by the 
tradition concerning it, for I never heard any 
person, — and I have conversed again and 
again with the greatest enthusiasts for Scot- 



BURNS CORRESPO^Uiix^c 



877 



tish airs — I say I never heard any one speak of 
%t as worthy of notice. 

I have been running over the whole hun- 
dred airs of which I lately sent yon the list ; 
and I think ' Lewie Gordon' is most happily 
adapted to your ode ; at least with a very short 
variation of the fourth line, which I shall pre- 
sently submit to you. There is in ' Lewie 
Gordon' more of the grand than the plaintive, 
particularly when it is sung with a degree of 
spirit, which your words would oblig-e the 
singer to give it. I would have no scruple 
about substituting your ode in the room of 
« Lewie Gordon,' which has neither the inter- 
est, the grandeur, nor the poetry that charac 
lerise your verses. Now the variation I have 
to suggest upon the last line of each verse, 
the only line too short for the air, is as follows : 

Verie Isf, Or to glorious victorie. 

2(/, Chains -chains and slaverie. 

3d, Let him, let him turn and flie. 
4th, Let him bravely follow me. 

bth. But they shall, they shall be free. 

6th, Let us, let us do or die ! 

If you connect each line with its own verse, 
I do not think you will find that either the 
sentiment or the expression loses any of its 
energy. The only line which I dislike in the 
whole of the song is, " Welcome to your gory 
bed." Would not another word be preferable 
to welcome 7 In your next I will expect to be 
informed whether you agree to what I have 
proposed. TTiese little alterations I submit 
with the greatest deference. 

The beauty of the verses you have made for 
• Oran-gaoil,' will insure celebrity to the air. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 
I have received your list, my dear sir, and 
here go my observations on it. * 

* Down the burn, Davie.' I have this mo- 
ment tried an alteration, leaving out the last 
half of the third stanza, and the first half of 
the last stanza, thus : 

As down the burn they took their way, 
And through the flowery dale ; 

His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 
And love was aye the tale. 

With •' Mary, when shall we retnrn. 

Sic pleasure to renew ?" 
Quoth Mary, •• Love, I like the burn. 

And aye shall follow yott."f 



* Mr Thomson's list of songs for his pub- 
lication. In his remarks the bard proceeds in 
order, and goes through the whole; but on 
many of them he merely signifies his approba- 
tion. All his remarks of any importance are 
presented to the reader. 

+ This alteration Mr Thomson has adopted, 
(«r at l<3ast intended to adopts) instead of the 



• Through the wood laddie :* I am decidedly 
of opinion, that both in this and '"Ihere'U ne- 
ver be peace till Jamie comes hanie, ' the 
second or high part of the tune being a repeti- 
tion of the first part an octave higher, is only 
for instrumental music, and would be much bet- 
ter omitted in singing. 

• Cowden-knowes. * Remember in your in- 
dex that the song in pure English to this tune. 



is the production of Crawford : Robert was 
his Christian name. 

' Laddie lie i 
some time. I i 
I am complete master of a tune in my own 
singing, (such as it is,) I never can compose 
for it. My way is : I consider the poetic senti 
ment correspondent to my idea of the ir.usical 
expression ; then choose my tbeme ; begin one 
stanza ; when that is composed, which is ge- 
nerally ihe most difiicult part of the business, 
I. walk out, sit down now and then, look out 
for objects in nature around me, that are in 
unison or harmony with the cogitations of my 
fancy, and workings of my bosom ; humming 
every now and then the air with the verses I 
have framed. When I feel my music beg-n- 
ning to jade, I retire to the solitary tiresiue of 
m_v study, and there commit my effusions to 
paper, swinging at intervals on the hind legs 
of my elbow-chair by way of calling forth my 
own critical strictures, as my pen goes on. 
Seriously, this at home, is almost invariably 
my way. 

What cursed egotism ! 

* Gill Morice' I am for leaving out. It is a 
plaguey length ; the air itself is never sung s 
and its place can well be supplied by one or 
two songs for fine airs that are not in your 
list. For instance, «Craigieburn-wood' and 
• Roy's Wife. ' The first, beside its intrinsic 
merit, has novelty; and the last has high 
merit, as well as great celebrity I have the 
original words of a song for the last air, in the 
hand- writing of the lady who composed it ; and 
they are superior to any edition of the song 
which the public has yet seen.* 

' Highland laddie. » The old set will please 
a mere Scottish ear best ; and the new an Ital- 
ianized one. There is a third, and what Os' 
wald calls the old • Highland laddie,' which 
pleases me more than either of them. It is 
sometimes called ' Gingla.i Johnnie ;' it being 
the air of an old humorous tawdry song of that 
name. You will find it in the Museum, « I has 
been at Crookie-den,' &c. I would advise jou, 
in this musical quandary, to ofl'er up your 
prayers to the muses for inspiring direction; 
and in the meantime, waiting for this direc- 
tion, bestow a libation to Bacchus; and there 
is not a doubt but you will hit on a judicious 
choice. Probalum est. 



original song, which is objectionable in point 
of delicacy. 

* This song, so much admired hy our bard, 
will be found in the future part of the volume. 



firs 



DIAJJOND CABINET LIBRARY. . 



olea 



• Auld Sir Simon,* I mast be,, _ 
BUl, aod put ia its place, ' The Quaker's wife, ' 

• Biythe hae I been oa the hill ' is oue of 
tbe finest songs ever I made in mj life ; and 
besides ia composed on a young lady, positively 
the most beautiful, lovely womao in the world. 
As I purpose giving you the names and desig. 
nations of all my her'oiDes, to appear in some 
future edition of your works, perhaps half 



41 

rreatesf ■ 



' the \ 



irld"' in your 



collection. 

' Dainty Davie ' I have heard sung, nine- 
teen thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine 
times, and always wiih the chorus to the low 
part of the tune; and nothing has surprised 
me so much as your opinion on this subject. 
If it will not suit, as 1 proposed, we will lay 
two of the stanzas together, and then make 
the chorus follow. 

* Fee him father ' — I inclose you Frazer's 
»et of this tune when he play, it slow j in fact, 
he makes it the language of despair. I shall 
here give you two stanzas in that style ; mere- 
ly to try if it will be a^iy improvement. Were 
it possible, in singing, to give it halt the pathos 
which Frazer gives it in playing, it would 
make an adniTable pathetic song. I do no( 
give these verses for any merit they have. 1 
composed them at the time in '♦ which Patie 
A;iaa*s mither died, that was about the back 
e' midnight ;" and by the leeside of a bowl of 
punch, which had overset every mortal 
company except the hauibois and the muse. 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, Thou hast left 

Aftea hast thou vow'd that death, Only 

should US sever, 
Now thou's left thy lass for aye — I mauu see 
thee never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never.* 

Thoa hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast me 

forsaken. 
Th >u hast me forsaken, Jamie, Thou hast i 

forsaken, 
Thoa canst love auither Jo, While my heart 

is breaking ; 
Soon my weary e'en I'll close — never mair to 

waken, Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken, f 



either, and in the andanfe way, would 
with a charming sentimental ballad. 

' Saw ye my father' is one of my greatest 
favourites. The evening before last, i wan 
dered out and began a tender song ; in what I 
think is its native style. I must premise tiiat 
the old way, and the way to give most effeci, 
is to have no starting note as the fiddlers call 
it, bat to burst at once into the pathos. 
Every country girl sings — «• Saw ye my fa- 
ther," &c. 

My song is but just begun; and I should 
like, before I proceed, to know your opinion of 
1 have sprinkled it with the Scottish dia- 
lect, but it may be easily turned into correct 
English. 

FRAGMENT 

lune — <« Saw ye my father." 

Where are the joys I hae met in the morning. 

That danced to the lark's early sang ? 
Wnere is the peace that awaited my wander- 



Ate'e 



' the 



'oods amang t 
inding the course o' yon 



Nae mair a- 
Anii. marki 
Nae mair 1 trace the light footsteps o' pie 

But sorrow and sad sighing care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys. 

And grim surly winter is near ? 
No, no ; the bees humming round the gi 

Proclaim it the pride o' the year. 

Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover. 
Yet lang, lang too well hae 1 known ; 

A' that has caused the wreck in my bosoni 
Is Jenuy, fair Jenny alone. 

Cetera Desunt. 



• Jocky and Jenny' I would discard, and in 
't« place would put 'There's nae luck about 
the house,' which has a very pleasant air ; and 
which is positively the finest love-ballad in 
that style in the Scottish, or perhaps in any 
oiiier language. • When she cam ben she 
buubet,' as aa air, is more beautiful than 



*• The Scottish (the Editor uses the word 
BUbstantiveiy, as the English) employ the ab- 
breviation, I'll for I shall as well as I will; 
and it is for I shall it is used here. In An- 
nan< .U», as in the northern counties of Eng- 
laad ivrr I shall, they use I'be. 



• Todlin harae. ' Urbani mentioned an 
idea of his which has long been mine; that 
this air is highly susceptitjie of pathos; ac- 
cordingly you will soon hear him, at your 
concert, try it to a so.ig of mine in the Mu- 
seum, « Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Dooiu* 
— One song more and i have done. * Auld 
lang syne.' Tue air is but "mediocre;" 
I'lit the following song, the old song of tfaa 
olden times, and which has never been ia 
print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it 
down from an old man's singing, is enough t9 
recommend any air. 

AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should aald acquaintance be forgot. 

And never brought to inin' ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
And the days o' lang syne ? 

Chorus, 

For auld lang syne, my dear. 



BURNS. —CORRESPONDENCE. 



We twa hae run about the braes, 
And pou't the go wans fine ; 

But we've wandered mony a wearj 
Sin aald laug syne. 

For auld, &c. 



e paidlel 



i' the burn. 



Bat seas between us braid hae roar d. 
Sin auld lang s> ne. 

For auld, &c. 

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 

rtudgie's a hand o' thine; 
And we'll fak a right guid-willie waaght, 

For auld lang syue. 

For auld, &c. 

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp. 

And surely I'll be mine! 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 

For auld lang syne.*- 

For auld, &c. 

Now, I suppose I have tired your patience 
fairly. You must, after all is over, have a 
number of ballads, properly so called. ' Gill 
Morice, Trai.eiit Mu.r, ."M'Phersou's Fare- 
well, Battle of Sheritl-muir,' or ' We ran and 
tbey ran, (I know the author of this charming 
ballad and his history), Hardiknute, Barbara 
Allan, ' (I can furnish a finer stt of this tune 
<han any that has yet appeared), and besides, 
do you know that i really have the old tune to 
which * The Cherry and the Slae ' was sung ; 
and which is mentiuued as a well known air 
in Scotland's Complaint, a book published 
before poor iVJarys days. It v\as then called 
•The banks o' Helicon ;' an old poem which 
Pinkerton has brought to light. Yoii will see 
all this in Ty tier's History of Scottish Music. 
Ibe tune, to a learned ear, may have no great 
merit ; but it is a great curiosity. I have a 
(ood many original things of this kind. 



No. XLIIL 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

September, 1793, 



is, though a beautiful, a hackneyed idea: so, 
if you please, we will let the line stand as it 
is. I have altered the song as follows : 

BANNOCKBURN. 



ROBERT BRUCK 3 ADDRESS TO HIS ARMS. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled; 
Scots wham Bruce has aften led j 
Welcome to your gory bed» 
Or to glorioufl victory. 



Wha will be a ti 



Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw t 
Freeman stand or freeman fa'» 
Caledonian I ou wi' me! 

Bv oppression's woes and pains ! 
By jour sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest reins. 
But they shall be— shall be free I 

Lay the proud usurpers low 7 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Forward I let us do or die ! 



A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday 
you had enough of my correspondence. The 
post goes, and my head aches miserablj. 
One comfort; I suffer so much, just low 
in this world, for last night's jovialitv. thst i 
shall escape scot-free fcx it in the world to 
come. Amen 1 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

2l/i Sept. 1793. 
A thousand thanks to you, my dear sir, for 
your observations on the list of my songs. I 
happy to find youi ideas so much in unison 
h my own respecting the generality of the 
I as well as the verses. About them we 
differ, but there is no disputing about hobby* 
horses. I shall not fail to profit by the re- 
marks you make ; and to reconsider the whoia 
with attention. 

♦ Daiaty Davie ' must be sung two stanzas 
together and then the chorus — 'tis the proper 
way. I agree with you, that there may be 
something of pathos, or lenderness at least, ia 
the air of • Fee him, father,' when performed 
with feeling; but a tender cast may be givea 
lo almost any lively air, if \ou slug it very 
slowly, expressively, and with serious words. 
I am, however, clearly and invariably for re- 
taining the cheerful tunes joined to their own 
humorous verses, wherever the verses are pass- 
able. But the sweet song for * Fee him, fa. 
ther,' which you began about the back of mid. 
night, I will publish as an additional one. M< 
James Balfour, the king of good fellows, and 
the best singer of the lively Scottish ballads 
that ever existed, has charmed thousands of 
companies with < Fee him, father, ' and with 



980 



DIAftlOND CABINET LIBRARY 



Todlin hame ' also, to ihe old words, which 
never Ehuuld be disunited frum eitlier of these 
airs. Some bacchanals I would wish to dis- 
card. ' Fy let us a' to the bridal,' for instance, 
is so coarse and vulgar, that I think it fit only 
to be sung in a company of drunken colliers ; 
and ' Saw ye my father' appears to ine both 
indelicate and silly. 

One word more with regard to your heroic 
ode. I think, with great deference to the poet, 
that a prudent general would avoid saying any 
thing to his soldiers which might tend to make 
death more frightful than it is. Gory, presents 
a disagreeable image to the mind ; and to tell 
them, 'Welcome to your gory bed,' seems 
rather a discouraging address, notwithstanding 
the alternative which follows. 1 have shown 
the song to three friends of excellent taste, and 
each of them objected to this line which em- 
boldens me to use the freedom of bringing it 
a^ain under your notice. I would suggest. 



No. XLV. 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

Sept. 1793. 
•• Who will deride when doctors disagree ?" 
My ode pleases me so much that I cannot al- 
ter it. Vour proposed alterations would, in 
my opinion, make it tame. I am exceedingly 
obliged to jou for putting me on re-consider- 
ing it ; as I think I have much improved it. 
Instead of "sodger! hero!" I will have it 
♦'Caledonian! onwi'me!" 

I have scrutinized it, over and over ; and to 
the world some way or other it shall go as it 
is. At the same time it will not in the least 
hurt me, should you leave it out altogether 
and adhere to your lirst intention of adopting 
Logan's verses.* 



I have finished my song to « S»w ye my 
father ;' and in English, as you will see. 
That there is a syllable too much for the ex- 
pressioa of the air, is true; but allow me te 
say, that the mere dividing of a dotted crotcheC 
into a crotchet and a quaver, is not a great mat, 
ter : however, in that, I have no pretensioD 
to cope in judgment with yon. Of the pi etr/ 
I speak with contidence ; but the music is a 
business where I hiut my ideas with the ut- 
most diffidence. 

The old verses have merit, though unequal^ 
and are popular ; my advice is to set the air to 
the old words, and let mine follow as English 
verses. 

FAIR JENNY. 



Tune — « Saw ye mj father. * 



I 



Where is the peace that awaited my wander 
At evening the wild woods among ? 



not composed. Bruce's troops were inurej 
to war, and familiar with all its suflerings and 
dangers. On the eve of that memorable day, 
their spirits were without doubt wound up to 
a pitch of enthusiasm suited to the occasion ; 
a pitch of enthusiasm at which danger becomes 
attractive, and the most territic forms of death 
are no longer terrible. Such a strain of senti- 
ment this" heroic "welcome" may be sup- 
posed well calculated to elevate— to raise their 
hearts high above fear, and nerve their arms 



o the 



rtal { 



Thes 



« Mr Thomson has very properly adopted 
this song, if it may be so called, as the bard 
presented it to him. He has attached it to the 
air of • Lewie Gordon,' and perhaps among 
the existing airs he could not find a better ; 
but the poetry is suited to a much higher 
strain of music, and may employ the genius 
of some Scottish Handel, if any such s^honld 
ic future arise. The reader vrill have ob- 
served that Burns adopted the alterations pro- 
posed by his friend and correspondent in for- 
mer instances with great readiress ! perhaps, 
indeed, on all indifl'erent occasions. In the 
present instance, however, he rejected them, 
though repeatedly urged, with determined re- 
solution. With every respect for the judg- 
ment of Mr Thomson and his, friends, we may 
be satisfied that he did so. He who in prepar- 
ing for an engagement attempts to wilhoraw 
his imagination from images of death, will 
probably have but imperfect success, and is 
no t fitted to stand in the ranks of battle, where 
the liberties of a kingdom are at issue. Of 
such men the conquerors at Bannockbuin were 



ight be illustrated and supported, 
by a reference to the martial poetry of all na- 
tions, from the spirit-stirring strains of Tyits- 
us, to the war-song of General \%olfe. Mr 
Thomson's observation, that •' Welcome t© 
your gory bed, is a discouraging address" 
seems not sufficiently considered. Perhaps, in- 
deed, it may be admitted, that the term gory is 
somewhat objectionable, not on account of its 
presenting a frightful but a disagreeable image 
to the mind. But a great poet uttering his con- 
ceptions on an interesting occasion, seeks al- 
ways to present a picture ihat is vivid, and is 
uniformly disposed to sacrifice the delicacies 
of taste on the altar of the imagination. And 
it is the privilege of superior genius, by pro- 
ducing a new association, lo elevate expressions 
tbat were originally low, and thus to triumph 
over the deficiencies of language. In how 
many instances might this be exemplified 
from the works of our immortal Shakspeaie. 

•• Who vio-aU fardels bear. 
To groan and (tceat under a weary life. 
When he himself might his quietus make 
With a bare bodkin, " 

It were easy lo «;nl«rge, but to suggest suck 
reflections is probably sufficient. 



r 



BURNS—CORRESPONDENCE. 



Is it that summer's forsaken our vallejs. 

And grim surly winter is near ? 
No, no, the bees humming round the gay 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover. 
Yet leg, long too v/eW have I kno>wi : 

All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 

Nor Hope dare a comfort bestow ; 
Come then, enamour'd and fond of my an- 



Enjoym 



I'll seek in mj woe. 



MB BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

Sept. 1793. 
I have been turning over some volumes of 
songs, to find verses whose measures would 
■uit the airs for which you have allotted me to 
find English songs. 

For • Aluirland Willie ' you have, in Ram- 
Bay's Tea- table, an excellent song, beginning 
• Ah, why those tears iu Nelly's eyes r* As for 
•The Collier's Dochter,' lake the following 
«ld Bacchanal. 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle fair can give t_ . 

Is but a fairy treasure. 
Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 

The billows on the ocean. 
The breezes idly roaming. 

The cloud's uncertain motion. 
They are but types of woman. 

01 art tnon not ashamed, 

Ta doat upon a feature ? 
If man thou wouldst be named, 

Despise the silly creature. 

Go, find an honest fellow ; 

Good claret set before ihee. 
Hold on till thou art mellow 

And then to bed in glory. 

The faulty line in Logan, water, I mend thus : 



• Raving winds around her blowing. '* 

Your Irish airs are pretty, but ther an 
ownright Irish. If ihey were like the -iiauks 
of Banua,' for instance, though really Irish, 
ia the Scottish taste, you might adopt 
them. Since you are so fond of Irish muMC, 
v?hat say you to twenty-tive uf them in an ad- 
ditional number: We could easily li.-.d this 
quantity of charming airs; I will' take care 
Chat you shall not waiit songs ; and 1 assure \ ua 
that you would find it the most saleable ut'iLe 
whole. If you do not approve of * Ro\ 's wife, * 
for the music's sake we shall not insert it. 
♦Deil tak the wars,' is a charming song; 
^o is 'Saw ye my Peggy.' • Ihere's uae 
luck about the house,' well deserves a place 
I cannot say that * O'er the hills and far awa' 
strikes me as equal to your selection. ' This 
is no mine ain house,' is a great favourite air 
of mine; and if you will send me your set of 
t, I will task my muse to her highest efioru 
vVhat is your opinion of • I hae laid a herria 
in sawt Y I like it much. Your Jacobite airs 
are pretty ; and tliere are many others of 
the same kind pretty — but you have not room 
for them. You cannot, I think, insert • Fys 
let us a' to the bridal' to any other words than 
its own. 

What pleases me, as simple and naive, dis- 
gusts you as ludicrous and low. For this rea- 
son, • Fye, gie me my coggie, sirs ' — « Fye 
let us a' to the bridal,' with several others of 
that cast, are, to me, highly pleasing ; while, 
' Saw ye my Father, or saw ye my Mother,* 
delights me with its descriptive simple pa- 
thos. Thus, my song, « Ken ye what 3Ieg o* 
the mill has gotten ? ' pleases myself so much, 
that 1 cannot try my hand at another song to 
the air ; so I shall not attempt it- 1 know 
jou will laugh at all this; but "ilka vulu 
wears his beU his ain gait. " 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

October, 1703. 
Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was ia« 
deed laden with heavy news. Alas, poor Ers. 
kine '. f The recollection that he was a coad- 
jutor in your publication, has, till now, scared 
me from writing to you, or turuii.g njj 
thoughts on composing for you. 

I am pleased that you are reconciled to the 
air of the • Quaker's Wife,' though, by the 
bye, an old Highland gentleman, and a deep 
ntiquarian, telis me it is a Gaelic air, and 
no« n by the name of • Leiger'm choss. ' The 
following verses I hope will please you, as aa 
English song to the air. 



The song, otherwise will pass. As to » M«- 
Gregoira Kua-Ruth,' you will see a song of 
mine lo it, with a set of the air superior to 
yours, in the Maseum Vol. ii. p. ISl. The 
foag begins. 



* This will be found in the latter part of tbia 
volume. 

f The Honourable A. Erskine, brother to 
Lord Kelly, whose melancholy death Mi 
Thomson had communicated in an exceUeal 
letter which he has eappress* ' 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Thine am I, tny faithful fair. 
Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 

Every pulse along my veins, 
Every roving faucy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart. 
There to throb and languish; 

Though despair had wrung ilb core, 
That would heal its anguish. 



Take away these rosy lips. 
Rich wiih balmj treasure 

Turn awa' 
Lest I d 



away ihine eves or lore 
I die with pleasure. 



What is life when wanting love ? 

Night without a morning: 
Love's tlie cloudless suoiuier sun. 

Nature gay adormng. 

Your objection to the English song I pro- 
posed for « John Auderson* my jo,' is certainly 
just. The following is by an old acquaintance 
of mine, and I think has meriu The 
Mas never ia print, which I think is so u 
in jour favour. The more original good poetry 
your collection couiains, it cerlaiuly has 
LiucU the mure merit. 

SONG, 

BY OAVIN TUKNBULL. 



While here all melancholy. 

My passion I deplore, 
Yet, urged by stern resistless fate, 

1 love thee more and more. 



And mock'd them when they sigh'd : 

But how my state is alter'd ! 

Those happy days are o'er ; 
For all th> uiireleniing hate, 

I love thee more and more. 

O yield, illustrious beauty, yield, 

No longer let me mourn ; 
And ihough victorious in the field, 

Thy captive do not scorn. 

Let generous pity warm thee. 

My wonted peace restore ; 
And grateful L shall bless thee still, 

Aud love thee more aud more. 

The following address of Turnbull to fh° 
nightingale will suit, as an Engli,h song, to 
the air^ ' There was a lass aud she was fair.' 
By the bye, Turnbull has a great many sougs 
in MS. which 1 can command, if you like b.s 
manner. Possibly, as he is an old friend of 
aime, I may be prejudiced in his favour j but 
1 like bome of his pieces very much. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 

BY G. TOKNBULL. 

Thou sweetest minstrel of the grove. 
That ever tried the plainiive strain. 

Awake thy tender tale of love, 

Aud soothe a poor forsaken swain. 

For though the muses deign to aid, 
Aud teach liiio, smooihly to complain ; 

Yet i'elia, charming, cruel maid. 
Is deaf to her forsaken swain. 

All day, wi'h Fashion's gaudy sons, 
In spoit she wanders o'er ihe plain ; 

The r tales approves, and still she shuns 
The nutes of her forsaken svvaiu. 

Wher. evening shades obscure the sky. 
And bring the solemn hours again. 

Begin, sweet bird, thy melody. 
And soothe a poor forsaken swain. 

I shall just transcribe another of TurnbuU'g, 
s^hich would go charmingly to • Lewie Gor« 



BY G. TURNBULL. 

Let me wander where I will. 
By shady wood or winding rill ; 
Where the sweeiest May-born flowers 
Paiut ihe meadows, deck the bowers i 
Where the liunei's early song 
Ecboes sweet ihe woods among: 
Let uie wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my faucy siiU. 

If at rosy dawn I choose 

To indulge the smiling muse; 

It I court some cool retreat. 

To avoid the noontide heat; 

If beneath the moon's pale ray, 

'ihrough unfrequented wilds i straj t 

Let nie wander where I will, 

Laura haunts my fancy still. 

When at night the drowsy god 
Waves his sleep-compelling rod. 
And 10 Fancy 's wakeful eyes. 
Bids celestial visions rise; 
>yhile witli boundless joy I roTS 
Through the fairy land of love: 
Let me wander where I will, 
Laura haunts my faucy still. 

The 



il 



I 



BURN 8. -CORRESPONDENCE. 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 



7th Nov. 1793. 



KX DEAR SIR, 
ifter so lon^ a silence, it gave i 
recognise jour w 



s peculiar 

for I had begun to be appreliensive tljat all 
was not well with \ou. I am happy to tind, 
however, that your silence did not proceed 
from thai cause, and that you have got among 
th6 ballads once more. 

I have to thank you for your English song 
to » Leiger 'm choss>' which I think exiremely 
pood, although the colouring is warm. Your 
friend Mr Turnbull's songs have doubtless 
considerable merit ; and as you have the coin- 
luandof bis manuscripts, I hope you may liiid 
out some that will answer as English songs to 
the airs yet unprovided. 



No. XLIX. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 



December, 1793. 
a like the following verses to 



Husband, husband cease yotir str: 
Nor longer idly rave, sir ; 

Though I am your wedded wife, 
Yet I am not your slave, sir. 



If 'tis stil! the lordly word. 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sovereign lord. 

And so, good bye, allegiance ! 

••Sad will I be so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Yet I'll try to make a shift. 

My spouse Nancy. " 

My poor heart then break' it must. 
My last hour I'm near it ; 

When you lay me in the dust. 
Think, think, how you will bear it. 

«• I vfill hope and trust in heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Strength to bear it will be given. 

My spouse Nancy." 

Well, sir, from the silent dead. 
Still I'll try to daunt you ; 

Ever round your midnight bed 
Horrid spiitei bhall hauut you. 



<« I'll wed another, like my dear 

Nancy, Nancy, 
Then all hell will fly for fear, 

My spouse Nancy," 

Air—** The Sutor's Dochter.*' 

Wilt thou be my dearie: 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart. 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul. 

That's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and vow that only thoa 

Shall ever be ray dearie. 

Only thou. Iswear and vow 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

, say thou lo'es me ; 



^ihou 



Mlt r 



my am. 



Say na ihou'lt refuse me ; 
If it winna, canna be, 
Thou for thine may choose me 
Let me, lassie, quickly die. 
Trusting that thoa lo'es me; 
Lassie let me quickly die. 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 
Edinburgh, 7th Api-U, 1794. 

MY DEAR SIR, 
Owing to the distress of our friend for the 1os» 
of his child, at the lime of bis receiving yoiw 
admirable but melancholy letter, 1 had not an 
opportunity till lately of perusing it.* How 
sorry am I to find Burns saying, " Canst 
thou not minister to a mind diseased ?" wh.le 
he is delighting others from the one end of ihe 
island to the other. Like the hypochondriae 
who went to consult a physician upon his 
case : Go, says the doctor, and see the famouf 
Carlini, who keeps all Paris in good humour. 
Alas ! sir, replied the patient, 1 am that un- 
happy Carlini ! 

\our plan for our meeting together pleases 
me greatly, and 1 trust that by some means or 
other it will soon take place; but your Bac- 
chanalian challenge almost frightens me, for I 
am a miserable weak drinker ! 

Allan is much gratified by the good opinion 
of his talents. He has just begun a sketch 
from your Cotter's S turday N sht, and if it 
pleases himself in the design, he' will probably 
etch or engrave it. In subjects of the pastor- 
al or huuiorous kind, he is perhaps ui. rivalled 
by any artist living. He fails a little in giving 
beauty and grace tc his females, and his co- 
louring is sombre, otherwise his paintings and 
drawings would be in greater request. 

I like the music of the ' Sutor's Doch-er,- 
and will consider whether it shall be added to 
the last volume ; your verses to it ere pretty ; 
but your humorous English to suit ' JoJauel* 
is iuimitable. What think you of the air. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



) be Oswald's, 
liked, that I believe I must include it. Th 
▼erses are little better than " namby pamby. ' 
Do you coasider it worth a stanza ut two ? 



No. LL 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

May, 1794. 

M7 DEAR SIR* 
I return you the plates, with which I am high- 
ly pleased; I would humbly propose, instead 
of (he yuunker knitting stockings, to put a 
stock and horn into his hands. A friend of 
mine, who is positively the ablest judge on the 
subject 1 have ever met with, and, though an 
unknown, is j~et a superior artist with the 
burin, is quite charmed with Allan's man- 
ner: I got him a peep of the Gentle Shep- 
herd, and he pronounces Allan a most original 
artist of great excellence. 

For my part, 1 look on Mr Allan's choosing 
my favourite poem for his subject, to be one 
of the highest compliments 1 have ever re- 

1 am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped 
up in France, as it will put an entire stop to 
our work. Now, and for six or seven months, 
♦' 1 shall be quite in song," as jou shall see 
by and bye. I got an air, pretty enough, 
composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron of Heron, 
which she calls • The banks of Cree. ' Cree 
is a beautiful romantic stream ; and as her 
ladyship is a particular friend of mine, 1 have 
written tha following song. 

BANKS OF CREE. 

Here is the glen, and here the bower. 
All underneath the birchen shade ; 

The village. bell has told the hour, — 
O what can stay my lovely maidj 

'Tis not Maria's whispering call ; 

'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale, 
Mix'd with some warbler's dying fall 

The dewy star of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark in the grove, 
llis little, faithful mate to cheer ; 

At once 'tis music — and 'tis love. 

And art thou come ! and art thou true ! 

O welcome dear to love and me { 
And let us all oar wws renew. 

Along the floway banks of Cree. 



work to be at a dead stc;, nntil the allies Mt 
our Modern Orpheus at liberty from the sava^ 
thraldom of democratic discords ! Alas the 
day! And woe's me! That auspicioua 
period pregnant with the happiness of mil* 

I have presented a copy of your songs to the 
daughter of a much-valued, and much-hon- 
noured friend of mine, Mr Graham of Fintry. 
I wrote on the blank side of the title page, the 
following address to the young lady. 

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal 

In sacred strains and tuneful unmbers 
join'd. 
Accept the gift ; though humble he who 
gives. 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mindU 

So may no ruffian \ feeling in thy breast. 
Discordant jar thy boiom chords among; 

But peace attune thy gentle sou! to rest. 
Or love ecstatic waie his seraph song. 

Or pity's notes in luxury of tears, 
As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

"While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



No. LIIL 
MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

Edinburgh, lOih August, 1793. 
*n? DKAR sm, 
I owe you an apology, for having so long de- 
layed to acknowledge the favour of your last. 
I fear it will be as you say. I shall have no 
more songs from Pleyei till France and vw 
are friends : but nevertheless, I am very desir- 
ous to be prepared with the poetry, and as the 
season approaches in which your muse of 
Coila visits you, I trust I shall, as formerly, be 
frequently gratifiea with the result of your 
amorous and tender interviews ! 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

30tk August, 1794. 
The last evening, as I was straying out and 
thinking of 'O'er the hills and far awa, ' I 
spun the following stanza for it : but whether 
my spinning will deserve to be laid up in store 
like the precious thread of the silk-worm, or 
*— ushed to the devil like the vile manufacture 
the spider, I leave, my dear sir, to your 



No. LIL 



* A portion of this letter has been left out* 
for reasons that will easily be imagined. 

+ It were to have been wished that instead 
of rw^an/eeiing, the bard had used a less lug- 
ts Cher* BO news yet of Pleyei 7 Or is your | ged epithet, e. g. ruder 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
July, 1793. 



•BURNS. —CORRESPONDENCE. 



nraal candid criticism. I was pleased with 
several lines in it, at first; but I own, that 
Bow it appears rather a flimsy business. 

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see whe- 
ther it be worth a critique. We have many 
sailor songs ; but, as far as I at present recol- 
lect, they are mostly the effusions of the jovial 
sailor, not the wailings of his lovelorn mis- 
tress. I must here make one sweet excep- 
tion—' Sweet Annie frae the Sea-beach came. ' 
Now for the song. 

ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 

Tune — • O'er the Hills,' &c. 

How can my poor heart be glad. 
When absent from my sailor lad ; 
How can I the thought forego. 
He's on the seas to meet the foe ; 
Let me wander, let me rove, 
Still my heart is with my love; 
JJightlj dreams and thoughts by day 
Are with him that's far away. 



On the seas and far away. 
On stormy seas and far away, 
- Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are aye with him that's far away. 

When in summer's noon I faint 
As weary flocks around me pant. 
Haply in this scorching sun, 
JVly sailor's thundering at his gun: 
Bullets, spare my only joy ! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 
Fate do with me what you may, 
Spare but him that's far away j 
On the seas, &c. 

,At the starless midnight hour, 
When winter rules with boundless power; 
♦As the storms the forest tear. 
And thunders rend the howling air, 
List'ning lo the doubling roar, 
Surging on the rocky shore, 
AH 1 can — I weep and pray. 
For his weal that's far away. 
On the seas, &c. 

Peace, thy olive wand extend. 
And bid wild war his ravage end. 
Wan with brother man to meet. 
And as a brother kindly greet : 
Then may heaven, with prosp'rous gales. 
Fill my sailor's welcome sails. 
To my arms their charge convey, 
]Vly dear lad that's far away. 
Oa the seas, &c. 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 16th SepU 1794. 

MX DEAR SIR, 
You have anticipated my opinion of ' On the 
seas and far away;' I do not think it one ot 
your very happy productions, though it cer- 
tainly couiains stanzas that are worthy of all 
acceptation. 

The second is the least to my liking, partl- 
cnlarly, 'Bulleis, spare my only joy. ' Con- 
found the buliels. It might perhaps be ob- 
jected to the third verse, ' At the starless mid- 
night hour, 'that it has too much grandeur 
of imagery, and that greater simplicity of 
thought would have better suited the charac- 
ter of a sailor's sweei heart. The tune, it must 
be remembered, is of the brisk cheerful kind. 
Upon the whole, therefore, in my humble opi-. 
nion, the song would be better adapted to the 
tune, if it consisted only of the first and last 
verses I with the choruses. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

Sept 1794. 
I shall withdraw my ' On the seas and faf 
away' altogether ; it is unequal, and unworthy 
of ihe work. Making a poem is like begetting 
a son ; you cannot know whether you have a 
wise man or a fool, until you produce him la 
the world and try him. 

For that reason 1 send you the offspring of 
my brain, abortions and all ; and as such, pray 
look over them and forgive them, and burn 
.* I am flattered at your adopting • Ca' 
ewes to the knowes,' as it was owing !o 
hat it ever saw the light. About seven 
years ago I was well acquainted with a worthy 
little fellow of a clergyman, a Mr Clunzie, 
ho sung it charmingly ; and at my request, 
Ir Clarke took it down from his singing. 
When I gave it to Johnson, I added some 
stanzas to the song, and mended others, but 
still it will not do for you. In a solitary stroll 
which I took to-day, I tried my hand on a 
few pastoral lines, following up the idea of the 
chorus, which I would preserve. Here it is, 
:h all its crudities and imperfections on ila 



Ca* the yewes to the knowes, 
Ca' them whare the heather grows, 
Ca' them whare the burnie rows. 
My bonnie dearie. 



t This Virgilian order of the poet should, 
I think, be disobeyed with respect to the song 
in question, the second stanza excepted.— 
Note by Mr Thomson. 

Doctors differ. The objection to the second 
stanza does not strike the Editor^ 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



H&rk the mavis' eyening sang 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang,* 
Then a-fauldiiig let us gaug, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side. 
Through the hazels spreading wide, 
O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 
Ca' the, ice. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers. 
Where al moonshine midnight hours, 
O'er the dewy bending flowers. 
Fairies dance sae cUeery. 
Ca' the, &C. 

Ghaist nor bogle shall thou fear, 
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae aear, 
Kocht of ill may come thee near, 
Aly bonnie dearie. 



Mv bonnie dearie. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON, 

Septtmber, 1794. 
Do you know a blackguard Irsh -on?, called 
• Otiagh's Water-fall •■' The air is charming, 
and I have often regretted the want of decent 
verses to it. It is too much, at least for ray 
humble rustic muse, to expect that every ef- 
fort of hers shall have merit ; still I think" that 
it is better to have mediocre verses to a fa- 
♦ourite air, than none at all. On this princi- 
ple I have all along proceeded in the Scots 



1 Museum, 



its 1 



entioned, for that work, 

it you as an editor, you may 

; verses to it that you cau 



Tune—** Onagh's Water-fall. " 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets. 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly o'er-arching 

Twa laughing e'en o' bonnie blue. 
Her smiling sae wyling. 

Wad make a wretch forget his woe ; 
What pleasure, what treasure. 

Unto these rosy lips to grow ; 



I tributary stream to 



Such was ray Chloris' bonnie %«•» 
When first her bonnie face I saw. 

And aye my Chluris' dearest charm. 
She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Like harmony her motion : 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 
Btiraying fair proportion. 

Wad make a saint forget the sky, 
Sae warming, sae charming. 

Her faultless form and graceful air ; 
Ilk feature— auld Nature 

Declared that she could do nae mair : 
■ Hers are the willing chains o' love. 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law J 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm. 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

let others love the city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
Gie me the lonely valley. 

The dewy eve, and rising mooDf 
Fair beamng and streaming. 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling. 

The amorous thrush concludes his sang i 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw. 
And hear my vows o' truth and lore. 

And say thou lo'es me best of a'. 

Not to compare small things with great, ray 
taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of 
Prussia's taste in painting : we are told that 
he frequently admired what the connoisseurs 
decried, and always without any hypocrisy 
confessed his admiration. I am sensible that 
111) taste in music must be inelegant and vul- 
gar, because people of undisputed and culti- 
vated taste can tind no merit in my favourite 
tunes. Still, because I am cheaply pleased^ 
is that any reason why I should deny myself 
that pleasure ? Many of our strathspeys, an- 
ciirnt and modern, give me the most exqui'^ite 
enjoyment, where you and other judges would 

abably be showing disgust. For instance, I 

1 just now making verses for ♦ Rothiemur. 
che's Rant,' an air which pots me in raptures ; 
md in fact, unless I be pleased with the tune, 
[ never can make verses to it. Here I have 
Clarke on my side, who is a judge that I will 
lit against any of you. • Roihiemurche, ' he 
ays, '• is an air both original and beautiful ;" 
and on his recomendation I have taken the first 
part of the tune for a chorus, and the fourth or 
last part for the song. I am but two stanzag 
deep in the work, and possibly you may think, 
md justl), that the poetry is as little wortti 
your attention as the music* 

I have begun, anew, • Let me in this a« 
night.' Do you think that we ought to retain 
the old chorus ? I think we must retain both 
the old chorus and the first stanza of the old 
I do not altogether like the third line 
of the first stanza, but cannot alter it to please 
iiyself. I am just three stanzas deep in it. 
Would you have tfle ' ' denouement ".to be sue. 



In the original follow here two stanzas of 
ng, beginning, " Lassie wi' the lint-whit* 

locks ;* which will be found at fall length wi' 

terwards. 



II 



BURNS CORRESPONDENCE. 



Z8T 



cessfal or otherwise ; should she ♦Met him in" 
or not. 

Did you not once propose • The Sow's tail 
o Geordie, ' as an air for your work ; I am 
iiiie delighted with it; but I acknowledge 
hat is no mark of its real excellence. I once 
et about verses for it, which 1 meant to be ir 
he alternate way of a lover and his mistress 
banting together. I have nat the pleasu 
uowing Mrs Ihomson's Christian uamej 
yours, 1 am afraid, is rather burlesque for s 
meat, else I had meant to have made you the 
hero and hero'ne of the little piece. 

How do you like the following epigram, 
which I wrote the other day on a lovely young 
girl's recovery from a fever 'i Doctor Maxwell 
was the physician who seemingly saved her 
from the grave, and to him I address the fol- 
lowing. 

TO DR MAXWELL, 

ON MISS JESSIE STAIG's RECOVERY. 

Maxwell, if merit here jou crave. 

That merit I deny : 
Yon save fair Jessy from the grave ! 

An angel could not die ! 



No. LVIIL 

MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

I perceive the sprightly muse is now attend- 
ant upon her favourite poet, whose •• wood- 
notes wild" are become as enchanting as ever. 
' She says she loes me best of a', ' is one of 
(he pleasantest table songs I have seen, and 
henceforth shall be mine when the song is go- 
ing round. I'll give Cunningham a copy, he 
can more powerfully proclaim its merit. I am 
far from undervaluing your taste for the strath- 
spey music ; on the contrary, I think it highly 
Ruiraating and agreeable, and that !:0me of the 
strathspeys, when graced with such verses as 
yours, will make very pleasing songs, in the 
same way ihat rough Christians are tempered 
and softened by lovely woman, without whom, 
you kuow, they had been brutes. 

I am clear for having the ' Sow's tail, ' par- 
ticularly as your proposed verses to it are so ex- 
tremely promising. Geordie, as you observe, 
is a name only tit for burlesque composition. 
Mrs Thomson's name (Katharine) is not at 
all poeiical. Retain Jeanie, therefore, and 
make the other Jamie, or any other that 
sounds agreeable. 

Your • Ca' the yewes,' is a precious 'itlle 
morceau. Indeed I am perfectly astonished 
and charmed with the endless variety of your 
fancy. Here let me ask you whether you 
never seriously turned your thoughts upon 
dramatic writing. That is a field worthy of 
'our genius, in which it might shine forth in 
ill its splendour. One or two successful pieces 
ipon the London stage would make your for- 
:ane. The rage at present is for musical 
tramos ; few or aone of those which have ap- 



peared since the < Daenaa,' possess much poet- 
ical merit : there is little in the conduct of 
the fable, or in the dJalogue, to interest the 
audience. They are chiefly vehicles for music 
and pageantry. I think you might produce a 
comic opera in three acts, which would live by 
the poetry, at the same time that it would be 
proper to take every assistance from her tune- 
ful sister. Part of the songs of course would 
be to our favourite Scottish airs ; the rest might 
be lefc with the London composer — Storace 
for Drury Lane, or Shield for Covent garden ; 
both of them very able and popular musicians. 
I believe that interest and mancEuvring are 
often necessary to have a drama brought on : 
so it may be with the namby pamby tribe of 
flowery scribblers; but were you to address 
Mr Sheridan himself by letter, and send him 
a dramatic piece, I am persuaded he would, 
for the honour of genius, give it a fair and 
candid trial. Excuse me for obtruding these 
hints upon yoiu consideration. ^ 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Uth October, 1794. 
The last eight days have been devoted to the 
re-examination of the Scottish collections, i 
have read and sung, aiidhddled, and consider- 
ed, till I am half blind and wholly stupid. 
The few airs 1 have added, are inclosed. 

Peter Pindar has at length sent me all the 
songs I expected from him, which are in gene- 
ral elegant and beautiful. Have you heard of 

Loudon collection of Scottish airs and songs, 

ist published by Mr Ritson an Englishman. 

shall send you a copy. His introductory 
essaj on the subject is curious, and evinces great 
reading and research, but does not dee de tlie 
question as to the origin of our melodies ; 
though he shows clearly that Mr I'ytltr, in his 
ingenious dissertation, has adduced no son of 
proof of the hypothesis he wished to establish ; 
and that his classilicatioii of the airs, according 
to the eras when they were composed, is mere 
fancy and conjecture. On John Pmkerton, 
Esq. he has no mercy ; but consigns him to 
damnation! He snarls at my publication, on 
I he score of Pindar being engaged to write songs 
for it ; uncandidly and unjustly leaving it to tje 
inferred that the songs of Scottish writers had 
been sent a-packing to make room for Peter's ! 
Of you he speaks with some respect, but gives 
you a passing hit or two, for daring to dress up 
a little some old foolish songs for the Museum. 
Mis sets of the Scottish airs are taken, he sqn s, 
frum the oldest collections and best author- 
ities : many of them, however, have such a 
strange aspect, and are so unl.ke the sets which 
are sung by every person of taste, old or young, 
in town or country, that we can scarcely recog. 
aize the features of our favourites. By going to 
the oldest collections of our music, it does nut 



♦ Our bard had before received the same 
Ivice, and certainly took it so far into con- 
sideration OS to have cast about for a subject. 



SS8 



DIAJVIOND CABINET LIBRAUY. 



follow that we find the melodies in their ori- 
ginal stale. These melodies had been pre- 
served, we know not how lon^r, by oral cc=i- 
municatioa, before being collected and printed : 
and as different persons sang the same air very 
differently, according to their accurate or con- 
fused recollection of it, so even supposing the 
first collectors to have possessed the industry, 
the taste and discernment to choose the best 
they could hear, (which is far from certain,) 
still it must evidently be a chance, whether the 
collections exhibit any of the melodies in the 
state ihey were first composed. In selecting 
the melodies for my own collection, I have been 
as mucb guided by the living as by the dead. 
>Vhere these differed. I preferred the sets thit 
appeared to me the most simple and beautiful, 
ana ihe most generally approved; and, withoa: 
meaning any compliment lo my own capability 
of choosing, or speaking of the pains I have 
taken, I flatter myself that my seU wil! be 
found equally freed from vulgar errors on the 
one hand, and affected graces on the other. 



WR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
19th Oeiober, 1794. 

MV DEAR FRIEXD, 
By this morning's post I have your list, and, 
in general, I highly approve of it. I shall, at 
more leisure, give you a critique on the whole. 
Clarke goes to vour town bv to-dav's flv, and 
I wish >ou would call on "him and take his 
opinion in general : vou know his taste is a 
standard. He w ill return here again in a week 
or two, so, please do not miss asking for him. 
One thing I hope he will do, persuade you to 
adopt mv favourite, ' Craigie-burn-wood. ' in 
your selection : It is as great a favourite of his 
Rs of nii:ie. The lady on whom it was made is 



one 


f the finest women in Scotland: enc, 


fact. 


(entre twus.) is in a manner to me w 


Stern 


e's Eliza was to him, a mistress, afrie 


or w 


lat vou will, in the guileless simDlicit> 


Plato 


iiic love. (Now don't put any of y 



To descend to basiness ; if yon like my Me% 
of • Wtien she cam ben she bobbet,' the ;ol. 
lowing stanzas of mine, altered a little f.om 
what they were formerly when set n. another 
air, may perhaps do instead of worse stanaas- ; 

SAW YE MY PHELY, 

Quasi dicai Phillis.) 

Tune—' When she cam ben she bobbet. 

saw ye my dear, my Phely f 
O saw ye my dear, my Phely f 
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new lor r 
She winna come hame to her Willie. 

\%'hat says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
She lets thee (o wit that she has thee forgot. 
And for ever disowns thee, her Willie. 

O had I ne'er seer, thee, my Phely ! 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely I 



Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. 'The 
Posie' (in the Museum), is my corr.positi..n : 
the air was taken down from ^!^s Burns' 
voice.* It is well known in the West C<-un- 
try, but the old words are trash. By the b)e, 
taie a look at the tune again, and tell me if >cu 
do not think it is the original from which 
•Roslin Castle' is composed. The second 
part, in particular, for the first two or ihr-e 
bars, is exactly the old air. « Strathallau's 
Lament' is mine; the music is by our ripht- 
trusty and deservedly v< ell-beloved, Allan 
Masterton. * Donocht head, ' is not mine : I 
would give ten prunds it were. It appeared 
first in the Edinburgh Herald ; and ca:i.e 
to the Editor of that paper with the 
Newcastle post-mark on it.f 'Whistle o'er 



• have 



cli=hraaclaver about it among our acquaia- 
taoces. ) I assure you that to my lovely friend 
you are indebted for many of your best scngs 
of mine. Do you think that the sober, gin- 
horse routine of existence, could inspire a man 
ivith life, and love, and joy — could fire him 
with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos, 
equal to the genius of your book — No ! no ! — 
Whenever I want to be more than ordinary 
in song ; to be in some degree equal to your 
diviner airs — do you imagine I fast and pray 
for the divine emanation ? Tout au cotitraire, 
I have a glorious recipe ; the very one thai for 
tis own use was invented by the divinity of 
healing and poetry, when first he piped to the 
flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a regimen 
of admiring a hne woman; in proportion to the 
adorability of her charms, in proportion you 
are delighted with my verses. The lightning 
rtt tier eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the 
witchery of her smile, the dirinity of Helicon! 



* 'The Posie' will be found afterwards 
T is aiid the other poems of which he speaks, 
: had appeared in Johnson's >iuseum, and Mr 
I T. had inquired whether ihey were our bard's, 
t The reader will be carious to see thi 
poem so highly praised by Burns. Hereit is ;• 

Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-head,* 

The snaw drives snelly through the dal^ 
The Gaberluiizie tirls my sneck. 

And shivering tells his waefu' tale. 
«' Cauld is tl.e night, O let me in. 

And dinna let your minstrel fa'. 
And dinna let his winding sheet 

Be naihing but a wreath o' snaw. 

«' Full ninety winters hae I seen. 

And pip'd whar gor-cocks whimng fiew» 
And mony a day I've danced, I ween. 

To lilts which from my drone I blew.'* 
My Eppie waked, and soon she cried. 

Get up, Guidman, and let him in} 
For weel ye ken the winter night 

Was short when he began his din'. 

^ A mountain in the ncnb* 



EURNS CORRESPONDENCE. 



8S8 



the lave o't it miOB t tha moaie wid to be by 
John Bruce, a caiobrtOeu violin player in Dum- 
fries, about lb« Oe^Dning of this century. 
This I know; Bmce, who was an honest man, 
though a red-wud Highlandman, consiantly 
claimed it ; and by all the old masical people 
joere in believed to be the author of it. 

• Andrew and his cutty gun. ' The soog^ to 
vhich this is set in the Museum, is mine ; and 
Has composed on Miss Eujjhemia Murray, 
of Linirose, commonly and deservedly calledi 
the flower of Straibmore. 

« How laiip and dreary is the night.' 1 met 
with some such words in a collection of songs 
suinewbere, which I altered and enlarged ; and 
lo please you and to suit your favourite air, 
I have taken a stride or two across my room, 
mnd have arranged it aaewt as you will find on 
ihe other page. 

• Tune— Cauld kail in Aberdeen. 

How lang and dreary is the night. 
When I am frae my dearie ; 

I restless lie frae e'en to morn. 
Though I were ne'er sae weary. 



For oh, her lanely nights are lang ; 

And oh, her Ureams are eerie ; 
And oh, her widow'd heart is sair. 

That's absent frae her dearie. 

When I think on the lightsome days 
I spent wi' thee, my Uearie ; 

And now what seas between us roar, 
How can I be but eerie i? 
Fur oh, (Stc 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ; 

The joyless day how dreary : 
It was na sae, )e glinted bye, 

V> hen [ was wi' my dearie . 
For oh, &C. 

Tell me how you like this. I differ from 
your idea of ihe expression of the tune, 'Ihere 
u, to me, a great deal of teuderne!>s in it. 
Vou cannut, iu my opinion, dispense wiih a 
fciihs to your addenoa airs. A lady of mv ac- 
quaintance, a noted performer, plays and sings 



My Fppie's voice, O vow it's sweet, 

tvtn though she bans and scaulds a we 
But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale, 

O, bailh, its doubly dear to tne ! 
Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire, 

I'll make it bleeze a boniiie flame : 
Your blood is thin, je've tint the gate. 

Ye bhi.uld na stray sae far frae hame. 

•• Nae hame have I, the minstrel said, 
.Sad party-strite o'erturn'd my ha' ; 

And, weeping at the eve o' life, 

I wander through a wreath o' snaw. '* 



This affect 


ng poem is apparently i 


pl.;te. Ihe a 


uihor ueed noi be Hshan 


pwi. himself. 


il u »vo"hi Mi iiiitub. 


\laa\iieu. 





at the same time so channiogly, that T shall 
never bear to see any of her sonjs sent into 
the world as naked as Mr What-d'ye-call-nm 
has done 'n his London collection. A 

These English songs gravel me to death. 
I have not that command of the language that 
I have of my native tongue. I have been at 
' Duncan Gray,' to dress it in English, but all 
1 can do is deplorably stupid. For ii 



Tune — • Duncan Gray.* 



Let not T 

Of 



n e'er complain 

a love; 



s range. 



Let not women e'er complai 
Fickle man is apt to rove ; 
Look abroad through Naturi 
Nature's mighty law is change j 
Ladiee would it not be strange; 
Man should then a monster prove ! 



Sun 



Round and round the se 
Why then ask of silly mai 
To oppose great Nature's 
We'll be constant while w 

You can be no more, yo 



Since the above, I have been out in the 
coun;ry taking a dinner with a friend, where 
I met with the lady whom 1 nieniioned in the 
second page, of this oddi-and-ends of a letter. 
As usual, I got into song ; and reivuning home 



a. the following 



THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE 

TO HIS MISTRESS. 

Tune — • Deil tak the wars. ' 

Sleep's! thon or wak'st thon, fairest ereattire t 

Riisy morn now lifts his e\e. 
Numbering ilka bud which Nature 

Waters wi' ihe tears o' joy : 

Now through the leafy woods. 

And by the reeking floods ; 
W ild ^ature's tenants, freely, gladly stray ; * 

The l,ut«hueiu his bower ' 

Chants o'er the breathing flower ; 

Ihelav'rock to the sky 

A>cenc!8 wi' sangs o' joy. 
While the sua and thou arise to bless tha 

day.t 
PhtEbuB gilding the brow o' morning 

Banishes ilka darksome shade. 
Nature gladdening and adornii;g ; 

Such to me my lovely maid. 



* Mr RitsoD. 
f Variation, 

Now to the streaming fountain. 
Or up the heathy mountain. 
The hart, bind, and roe, freely, W:ldly.watt> 
ton. bray; ' 

In twining hazel bnwers < 

Hie lay Ihe Unr.et pours I 
Tb« lav 'reck, ^c. 



2W5 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Wh»n absent frae mj fr.ir. 

Tlu- murkj sha&es o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast ray sullen iky ; 

But when in beauty's light. 

She meets my ravish'd sight. 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
♦Tis then I wake to life, to light, and toy.* 

If you honour my verses by setting the air to 
them", I will vamp up the oid song, and make 
it English enough to be understood. 

I inclose you a musical curiosity, an East 
Indian air, whicb you would swear was a Scot- 
tish one. I knowthe authenticity of it, as the 
gentleman who brought it over is a particular 
acquaintance of mine. Do preserve me the 
copy I send you, as it is the only one I have. 
Clarke has set a bass to it, and I intend put- 
ting it into the Musical Museum. Here fol- 
low the verses I intend for it. 

THE AULD MAN. 

But lately seen in gladsome green 

The woods rejoiced the day, 
Thro' penile showers the laughing flowers 

In double pride were gay : 
But now our joys are fled. 

On winter blasts awa! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a'« 

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
Wy trunk of eild, but buss or beild. 

Sinks in ;ime's wintry rage. 
Ob, age hds weary days. 

And nishts o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime» 

Why com'st thou not again! 
I would be ooliged to you if you would pro- 
cure me a sight of Rilson's collection of Eng- 
lish soiiH-s, which you mention in your letter. 
I will thank you for another information, and 
that as speedily as you please : whether this 
miserable drawling hotch-potch epistle has not 
«tn!pletely tired you of my correspondence. 



No. LXL 
MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

Edinbnrsrh, 27th October, 1794. 



msible, 



tha 



agenui 



poet can no more exist without 
than his meat. I wish I knew the adorabie 
the, whose bright eyes and witcbirig smiles 
hare so often enraptured the Sco tish bard! 
that I might drink her sweet health when the 



* Variation. 

When frae my Chlfria parted. 
Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted, 
rhen night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, 
o'ercast inj skv ; 

But when she charms my sight. 
In pride of beauty's light. 
When thro' my very heart 
Her beaming glories dart ; 
»Ti» then, 'tis then I wak« to life and joy. 



toast is going round. • Craigie-bnrn wood, ', 
must certainly be adopted into my family, since 
she is the object of the song ; but in the name 
of decency , I must beg a new chorus verse from 
you. * O to be lying beyond thee, dearie,' is 
perhaps a consummation to be wished, but will 
not do for singing in the company of ladies. 
The songs in your last will do you lasting credit, 
and suit the respective airs charmingly. I am 
perfectly of your opi' ion with respect to the 
additional airs. The idea of sending them in- 
to the world naked as they were born was un- 
generous. Tbey must all be clothed and made 
decent bv our friend Clarke. 

I find I am anticipated by the friendly Can- 
ningham. in sending you Ritson's Scottish col-: 
lection. Permit me, therefore, to present vou 
with his English collection, which you will re- 
ceive by the coach. I do not tind his historic 
cal essay on Scottish song interesting. Your 
anecdotes and miscellaneous remarks will, I 
am sure, be much more so. Allan has just 
sketched a charming design from Maggie Lau»i 
der. She is dancing with such spirit as to 
electrify the piper, who seems almost dancing 
too, while he is playing with the most ezqui 



P. S. — Pray, what do your anecdotes say 
concerning • ]Maggie Lauder ?' was she a real 
personage, and of what rank ? You would 
surely spier for her if you ca'd at Anstruther 
town. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

November, 1794. 
Many thanks to you, my dear sir, for your 
present : it is a book of the utmost importance 
to me. I have yesterday begun my anecdotes, 

1 &c. for >our w^rk. I intend drawing it up In 
the form of a letter to you, which wiil save me 

I from (he tedious dulT busine-s of systematic 
arrangement. Indeed, as nil I have to say con- 
sists ot unconnected remarks, anecdetes, scraps, 

! old songs, &c. it would be impossible to give 

j the work a beginning, a middle, and an end ; 

I which the critics insist to be absolutely neces- 
sary in a work.* In my last, I told you my 

! objections to the song you had selected for ' My 
lodgiiifj is on the cold ground.' On my visit 
the other day to my fair Chloris (that is the 
poetic name of the 'oveiy godue.-s of my inspi- 
ration) she susgested an idea, which I, in my 
return from the. visit, wrought into the fol- 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 
The primrose banks bow fair : 

The balmy gales awaVe the flowers. 
And wave thy flaxen hair. 

* It does not appear whether Burns com- 
pleted these anecdotes, &c. Something of the 
kind, probably tha rude draughts, was fonnd 
amongst his papers, and appears in p. IS. 



BURNS — CORRESPOXDENCS. 



riie lav'rock shnns the palace gay. 
And o'er the cottage sings : 

For nature smiles as sweet, I ween. 
To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfa' string 

In lordly lighted ha' : 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Bljthe, in the birken shaw. 

TVie princely revel may survey 



The shepherd, in the flowery gler 
In shepherd's phrase will woo: 

The courtier tells a finer tale. 
But is his heart as true ? 



Tliese wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 
That spotless breast o' ihine : 

The cruriier's gems may witness love- 
But 'lis ua love like mine. 

iSow do you like the simplicity and tender- 
ness of this pastoral ? I tbink it pretty well. 

I like you for entering so candidly and so 
kindly into the story of ma Caere amie. I as- 
sure you, I was never more in earnest in my 
life, than in the account of tliat affair whic! 
I sent you in my la?t. Conjugal love is a pas 
which I deeply feel and highly venerate 



From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle aiud her hose. 
And o'er the flowery mead she goes. 
The youthful, charmiog Chloe. 



Lovely was she by the dawn. 

Youthful Chioe, charming Chloe, 

Tripping o'er the pearly lawn. 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

The fe-ither'd people you might sea 
Perch 'd all around on every tree. 
In notes of sweetest melody 
They hail the charming Chloe. 

'Till, painting gay the eastern skies,' 
The glorious sun began to ri»e, 
Ou!rivai'd by the radiant eyes 
Of youihful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she, &c. 

You may think meanly of this, but fake 
look at the bombast original, and you will b 
surprised that I have maoe so much of it. 
have tinished my song to « Rotbiemurche' 
Rant ; ' and you have Clarke to consult, as t 
the set of the air for singing. 



but. 






jch a tigi 



the gai; 

has power equal t( 
tions of the hum^ 



soul. 



I a 



what I V, 



and with a 



; that other species of the pa= 
'♦ ^\Tiere Love is liberty, and n 
Musically speaking, the first is an instrument 
"' '■ ' nty and confined, but 



Tune—* Rothiemurche's Rant." 

Chm-us, 
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 



Will 



rtless lassi 



very 



■welfare and happiness of the beloved objec 
the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades 
my soul; and whatever pleasures 1 mig' 
wish for, or whatever might be th« raptui 
they would give me, yet, if they interfere wi 
that first principle, it is having these pleasut 
at a dishouest price ; and justice forbids, and 
generosity disdains to purchase" 

Despairing of my own pow 
variety enough in English songs, I bave been 
turning over old collections to pick out s 
of which the n .... 



es to suit the rhyme of the air exactly, to j 
>ou them for your work. Where the sc 
have hitherto been but little noticed, nor have 
ever been set to music, I think the sliitt a fair 
one. A song, which, under the same first 
verse, you will find in Ramsay's Tea- Table 
Miscellany, I have cut down for an English 
dress to your ' Dainty Davie,' as follows. 

soxa. 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH ONE. 

It was the charnun? month of May, 
When all the flowers were fresh and gay, 
One morning, by the break of day , 
Tt* youthful, charming Cliio« 



Now Nature deeds the flowery lea. 
And a' is young and sweet like thee j 
O wilt thou share its joys wi' me. 
And say thou'lt be my dearie, O. 
Lassie wi', &c. 

And when the welcome summer shower 
Has cfaeer'd ilk drooping little flower. 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower, 
At sultry noon my dearie, 0. 
Lassie wi', &c. 

When Cynthia lights wi' silver ray. 
The weary shearers' hameward way ; 
Through yellow waving fields we'lfstray, 
And talk, o' love, my dearie, O. 
Lassie wi', &c. 

And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest; 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O.* 



* In some of the MSS. this -stanza runs 

And should the howling wintry blast. 

Disturb my lassie's midnight rest ; 

I'll fauld thee to my faithfu' breast, 

And comfort thee, my dearie, O. 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



Lassie wi' the lint-vthite locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. 

Wilt thou wi* me tent the flocks, 
Wilt thou be my dearie, O. 

This piece has at least the merit of being a 
re«:ular pastoral : the vernal tiiorn, the sum- 
mer noon, the autumnal erenin^, aud the win- 
ter night are regularly rounded. If you like 
it, well: if not, I will insert it ia the Mu- 
seum. 

I am cut of temper that yon should set so 
tweet, so tender an air, as • iieil tak the wars,' 
to the foolish old Terses. You talk of the 
siiliuess of • Saw ye my Father;' by heavens 
the odds is gold to brass ! Besides, the old 
sciig, though now pretty well modernized into 
the Scottish language, is, originally, and in 
the early editions, a bungling low imitation of 
the Scottish manner, by that genius, Tom 
D'Urtey ; so has no pretensions to be a Scot- 
tish production. There is a pretty English 
tongby Sheridan, in the ' Duenna, ' to this air, 
which is out of sight superior to D'Urfcj's. 
It begins, 

" When sable night each drooping plant re- 
storing. " 

The air, if I understand the expression of it 
properly, is the very native language of simpli- 
city, tenderness, and love. I have again gone 
over my song to the tune as follows.* 

Now for my English soug to 'Nancy's to 
the Greenwood,' &c t 

'I here is an air, • The Caledonian Hunt's 
delight,' to which I wrote a song that you 
will find in Johnson. • Ye banks and braes 
o* bonnie Doon ;' this air, I think, might find 
a place among your hundred, as Lear says 
of his knights. Do you know the history of the 
air ? It is curious enough. A good many 
years ago. Mr James Miller, writer in your 
good tuwn, a gentleman whom possibly you 
know, «as in company with our friend Clarke; 
and taUing of Scottish music, Miller expressed 



* See the song in its first and best dress in 
p. 289. Our bard remarks upon it, *• I could 
easily throw this into an English mould; but, 
to my taste, in the simple and the tender of 
pastoral song, a sprinkling of the old Scottish 
has an inimitable efl'ect." 

+ Here our poet gives a new edition of the 
Bong in p. 268 of this volume, and proposes 
it for another tune. The alterations are unim- 
portant. The name Maria, he changes to 
Eliza. Instead of the tenth and eleventh 
lines, as in p. 201, he introduces, 

•' Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 
1 fain my griefs wotild cover. ' ' 

Instead of the fourteenth line, which seems 
not perfectly grammatical as it is printed, he 
has, more properly, 

•• Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me. " 

This edition ought to have been preferred, had 
it been observed in time. 



I ardent ambition to be able to compose a 

:ots air. Mr Clarke, partly by way of joke, 
told him to keep to the black keys of Ihe harp 

chord, and preserve some kind of rhythm ; 
and he would infallibly compose a Scots sir. 
Certain it is, that, in a few days, Iklr Miller 
produced the rudiments of an air, which Mr 
Clarke, with some tenches and corrections, 
fashioned into the tune in qnestim. Ritson, 

I know, has the same story of the black /rets; 
this account which I have just given you 
Mr Clarke informed me of several years a^o. 

jrigin of our airs, I have heard it repeat- 

asserted that this was an Irish nir ; nay 

!t with an Irish gentleman who aflBrnied 

that he bad heard it in Ireland among the ola 



while, . 



i the other hand, i 



intess 



per^on who intro- 

ry, was a bnronet'a 

ho look down the 

piper in the Isle of 



duced the air into thi 

lady of her acquainta 

notes from an ilinei 

Man, How difficult th( 

troth respecting our poesv and music ! 1, 

myself, have lately seen a couple of ballads 

Sling through the streets of Dumfries, with my 

name at the head of them as the author, though 

it was the lirst time I had ever seen them. 

I thank you for admitting ' Craigie-burn 
wood;' and I shall take care to furmsh you 
with a new chorus. In fact, the chorus was 
not my work, but a part of some old vtrses \o 
the air. If I catch myself in a more than 
ordinarily propitious moment I shall write a 
new • Craigie-burn wood' altogether. My 
heart is much in the theme. 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the 
request ; 'tis dunning your generosity ; but in 
a moment when I had forgotten whether I was 
rich or poor, I promised Chloris acopy of your 
songs. It wrings my honest pride to write 
you this; but an ungracious request is doubly 
so, by a tedious apology. To make you some 
amends, as soon as I have extracted the neces- 
sary information out of them, I will return 
you Ritson's volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she is to 
make so distinguished a figure in ^ our collec- 
tion, and 1 am not a little proud that I have 
it in my power to please her so much. Lucky 
it is for your patience that my paper is done, 
for when I am in a scribbling humour, I know 
not when to give over. 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 
I5th November, 17M. 

Mr GOOD SIR, 
Since recei-.ing your last, I have had another 
interview with iVJr Clarke, and a long consnl- 
tation. He thinks the ' Caledonian Hunt' is 
more bacchanalian than amorous in its nature, 
aud recommends it to you to match the air 
accordingly. Pray did it ever occur to you 
how peculiarly well the Scottish airs are 
adapted for verses, in the form of dialogue ? 
The first part of tiie air is generally low, and 
suited for a n ' '" - j -■ j . 



ce, aud the second part. 



BURNS CORRESPONDENCE. 



In many instances, cannot be sung, at concert 
pilch, but bj a feuiale voice. A song thus 
performed makes an agreeable variety, but few 
of ours are written in tljis form : I wish jou 
would think of it in some of those that remain. 
The only one of the kind you have sent me is 
admirable, and will be a universal favourite. 

Your verses for • Rothiemurche' are go 
Kweetly paiitoral, and your serenade to Cbloris, 
for • Deil tak the wars,' so passionately tendtr, 
that 1 have sung myself into raptures with 
them. Your song for * My lodging is on 
the cold ground,' is likewise a diamond of the 
iirst water ; I am quite dazzled and delighted 
by it. Some of jour Chlorises I suppose have 
flaxen hair, from your partiality for this col- 
our; else we di^er about it; for I should 
scarcely conceive a woman to be a beauty, on 
reading that she had lint-white locks. 

« Farewell thou stream that winding flows,' 
1 think excellent ; but it is much too serious to 
come after * Nancy ;' at least it would seem an 
incongruity to provide tbe same air wiih merry 
Scotti.-h and melancholy English verses ! The 
more that the two sets of verses resemble each 
other, in their general character, the belter. 
Those you have manufactured for * Dainiy 
Davie,* will answer charmingly, I am happy 
to t:nd you have begun your anecdotes. I care 
not how long they be, fur it is impossible that 
any thing from your pen can be udious. Let 
me besetsch you to use no ceremony in telling 
Die V, ben you wish to present any of your friends 
with the songs : tbe next carrier will bring you 
three copies, and you are as welcome to twenty 
B8 to a pittch Qf snuff. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 



19th November, 1 
You see, my dear sii, what a pi 



itual c 



respondent I am ; though iLdeed yi 
thank yourself for the tedium of my letters, 
as you have so flattered me on my horseman. 
ship with my favourite hobby, and have prais- 
ed the grace of bis ambling so much, that I 
am scarcely ever ofiF his back. For instance, 
this morning, though a keen blowing frost, in 
my walk before breakfast, I linished my duet 
which you were pleased to praise so much, 
AVheiher I have uniformly succeeded, 1 will 
not say ; but here it is for you, though it is 
not on hour old. 

Tune—'* The sow'e tail. " 



O Philly, happy be that day 
When roving through the gather 'd haj 
Wy youlhfu' heart was stown away, 
And by thy charms, my Philly. 



O Willie, aye I bless the grove 
Where first I own'd my maiden lot 
t^'hiUt liiou didst pleiee it • pons 



As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day mair sweet to Hear, 
So ilka day to me mair dear 
And charming is my Philly. 

She. 
As on the brier the budding ro«e 
Still richer breathes and fairer blows. 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love 1 bear my Willie. 

He. 

The milder sun and bluer sky. 
That crown my harvest cares wi' 
Were ne'er sae welcome to my ey« 
As is a sight of Philly. 

She. 
The little swallow's wanton wing. 
Though wafting o'er the flowery spring, 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring 
As meeting o' my Willie. 

He. 

The bee, that through the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower, 
Corapar'd wi' my delight is poor. 
Upon the lips o' Philly. 



The woodbine in the dewy weet 
When evening shades in silence mei 
Is nocbt sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss o' Willie. 



Let fortune's wheel at random rin. 
And fouls may tine, and knaves may win ; 
My thoughts are a' bound upon ane. 
And that's my ain dear Philly. 



What's a' the joys tbat gowd can gief 
I care nae wealth a single flie ; 
Tbe lad I loe's the lad for me. 
And that's my ain dear Willie. 

Tell me honestly how you like it : and point 
out whatever you think faulty, 

I am much pleased with your idea of sing- 
ing our songs in alternate st>inzas, and regret 
ibat yon did not hint it to me sooner. In those 
tbat remain, I shall have it in my eye. I re- 
member your objections to the name, Philly j 
but it is the common abLreviation of Pliillis 
Sally, the only other name that suits, has, to 
my ear, a vulgarity about it, which unfits it for 
any thing except burlesque. The legion of 
Scottish poetasters of the day, wboin your 
brother editor, Mr Ritson, ranks with me, as 
my coevals, have always mistaken vulgarity 
for simplicity ; whereas simplicity is as much 
eloignee from vulgarity on the one hand, as 
from affected point and puerile conceit on the 

I agree wiih yon as to tbe air, 'Craigie-biirn 
wood, ' that a chorus would in some degree 
spoil the effect, and shall certainly have none 
in my projected song to it. It is not however 
a case in point with 'Rothiemurche:' theie, 
w in • Roy's Wife of AlditiJIcch,' a chi,ru» 
to a J tsfils well enough. At to iIm 



S34 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



ehoras going first, Aat ia the case with « Roy 
VV.fe,' as weU as • Rolbiemurche. ' 1 
feet, in the first part of both tunes, the rhyiue 
60 peculiar and irregular, and oji that irrepu- 
laritj depends so much of their beauty, that 
ve must e'en take them with all their wild- 
ness, and humour the verse accordingly. Leav. 
ing out the starting note, in both tunes, his, I 
think, an effect tliat no regularity could coun- 
terbalance the want of. 



„ rO Roy's wi 

Try { o u.s,e wi' 



Compare S Roy's 
— ■"■ I Lassie 



tciih, 



the lint-white locks. 



nfe of Aldivalloch. 

vi' the liut-white locks. 



Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable 
strike you J* In the last case, with the true 
furor of genius, you strike at once into the 
■wild originality of the air; whereas in the 
first insipid method, it is like the grating screw 
of the pins before the fiddle is brought into 
tune. This is ray taste ; if I am wrong I beg 
pardon of the cogiiosr^Jiti. 

♦The Caled.,niaii Hunt' is so charming, 
that it would nnke any subject in a song go 
down ; but pathos is certainly its native tongue. 
Scottish Bacchanalians we certainly want, 
though the few we have are eicellent. For in- 
stance, * Todlin hame' is, for wit and humour, 
an unparalleled composition; and ' Andro 
and his cutty gun' is the work of a master. 
By the way, are yon not quite vexed to think 
tiiat those men of gerius, for such they cer- 
tainly were, who composed our tine Scottish 
lyrics, should be unknown! It tias given 
me many a heart-ache. Apropos to Baccha- 
■ 1 Scottish ; 1 composed 



! Since yesterday's penmanship, T have frsnj- 
' ed a couple of English stanzas, by way of an 
, English song to Roy's wife. You will allow 
me that, in this instance, my English coiree- 
ponds in sentiment with the Scottiah. 

CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS. 
MY KATY ? 

Tune — ♦• Roy's wife." 

Chorus. 

Canst thon leave me thus, my Raty * 
Can^t thou leave me thus, my Kaly ? 
M ell thou know'st my aching heart. 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity ? 

Is tliis thy plighted fond regard, 

'Jhus cruelly to part, my Kaly 
Is this thy faithful swain's reward 

An aching, broken heart, my Katy ? 
Canst thou, jcc 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tent 
That fickle heart of thine, ray Katy : 

Thou may'st find those will love thee dear— 
But not a love like mine, my Katy, 
Cbnst thou, &c.'^ 



r I like much — * Lumps 



Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair. 
Whene'er Iforsaiber wi' sorrow and care, 
I gie them a skelp, as they 're creeping alang, 
Wi* a cog o' guid swats and an auld Scottish 
sang. 

I whyles elaw the elbow o' troublesome 

thought ; 
Bat man is a sc dger, and life is a faught : 
My mirth and good humour are coin in my 

pouch. 
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch 

dare touch. 

A towmond o* trouble, should that be my fo', 
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' • 
When at the blythe end of our jjuruev U last, 
Wha the diel ever thinks o' the E(?..d he has 
pass'd ? 

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on 



' Welcome and welcome 



* To this address, in the character of a for- 
saken lover, a reply was found on the part of 
the lady, among the MSS. of our bard, evi- 
dently in a female hand writing; which i& 
doubtless that referred to in p. 277 of this 
- -'■■me. The temptation to give it to the pub- 
lic is irresistible ; and if, in so doing, ofien:* 
should be given to the fair authoress, l)i« 
beauty of her verses must plead our excuse. 

TuTte—** Roy's wife." 



Stay, my Willie — yet believe me. 

Stay, my Willie— yet believe nie, 

'Tweel thou know'st nae every pac 

Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou leave m 

Tell me tha. thou yet art true. 

And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven. 
And wjen this bean pr.ves fause to thee, 
-on sun shall cease i s course in heaven. 
Stay, uiy Willie, &c. 



Jut to think I was betray 'd. 
That falsehood e'er our love 



rr. ■ r '^ -"■ 't-^e should sunder. 

To take the flow'ret to my breast, 
Ac<i find the guilefu ' serpent under ! 
Stay, my ^Vlliie, &c. 

Could I hope thon'dst ne'er deceive. 
Celestial pleasures might I choose 'em, 

I'd slight, nor seek in other spheres 

That heaven I'd find within thv bosom. 
Stay, my Willie, &c 

It may amuse the reader to he fold, thsr, ok 
this occasion, the gentleman and the la<iy huxf 
exchanged the dialecs of their rc-pe^li^ 
Tne Seoihsh bard nial-.si. luo wV 



BURNS CORRESPONDENCE. 



295 



Well! I think this, to be done in two or 
three turns across my room, and with two or 
three pinches of Irish Blackguard, is not so 
far amiss. You see I am determined to have 
my quantum of applause from somebody. 

Tell my friend Allan (for 1 am sure that we 
only want the trifling circumstance of being 
known to one another, to be the best friends 
on earth"), that I much suspect he has, in his 
plates, mistaken the tigure of the stock and 
horn. 1 have, at last, gotten one ; but it is a 
Very rude instrument. It is composed of three 
pirts; the stock, which is the hinder thigh- 
bone of a sheep, such as yoa see in a inu'ton- 
ham ; the horn, which is a common Highland 
cow's horn, cut ofiF at the smaller end until 
the aperture be large enough to admit the 
stock to be pushed up through the horn, until 
it be held by the thicker end of the thigh- 
bone ; and lastly, an oaken reed exactly cut 
and notched like that which you see every 
shepherd-boy h>ve, when the corn stems are 
green and full-grown. The reed is not made 
(4st in the bone, bat is he'd by the lips, and plays 
loose in the smaller end of ttie slock ; while tbe 
stock, with the horn hanging on its larger 
end, is held by the hands in playing. The 
slock has six or seven ventiges on the upper 
side, and one back-ventige. like the common 
flute. This of mine was made by a man from 
the braes of Athole, an-i is exactly what the 
shepherds wont to use in that country. 

However, either it is not quite properly bored 
in the holes, or else we have not the art of 
blowing it rightly i for we can make little use of 
it. If Mr Allan chooses, I will send him a 
sight of mine; as 1 look on myself to be a 
kmd of brother-brush with him. • Pride in 
Poets is nse sin,' and, will I say it, that I look 
»n Mr Allan and Mr Burns to be the only 
|enuine and real painters of Scottish custom in 
%e world. 



No. LXV. 
MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

28ihNov. 1794. 
1 acknowledge, my dear sir, you are not only 
the most punctual, but the most delectable cor 
respondent I ever met with. To attempt flat- 
tering you never entered my head; the truth 
is, I look back wiih surprise at my impu- 
dence, in so frequently nibbling at lines and 
couplets of your incomparable lyrics, for which 
perhaps, if you had served me right, you 
would have sent me to the devil. On the con- 
trary, however, you have all along condescend- 
ed to invite my criticism v, iih so much courtesy, 
that it ceases to be wonderful, if I have some- 
times given myself the airs of a reviewer. 
Your last budget demands unqualihed praise : 
all the songs ore charming, but the duet is a 
chef d'cEUvre, Lumps of pudding shall certain- 



dress in vnre English ; the reply, on the part 
of thelaay, in the Scottish dialect, is, if we 
mistitke not, by a young and beautiful English- 



ly make one of my family dishes : you have 
cooked it so capitally, that it will pleaseall 
palates. Do give us a few more of this cast, 
when you find yourself in good spirits : these 
convivial songs are more wanted than those of 
the amorous kind, of which we have great 
choice. Besides, one does not often meet with 
a singer capable of giving the proper effect to 
the latter, while the former are easily sung, 
and acceptable to every body. I participate in 
your regret chat the authors of some of our best 
songs are unknown ; it is provoking to every 
admirer of genius. 

1 mean to have a picture painted from your 
beautiful ballad. The soldier's return, to be 
engraved for one of my frontispieces. The 
most interestins point of time appears to nie, 
when she recognizes her ain dear Willy, < She 
gazeJ, she redden'd like arose.' The thret • 
lines immediately following, are no doubt more 
impressive on the reader's feelings ; but were 
the painter to Us. on these, then you'll observo 
the animation and anxiety of her countenance 
is gone, and he could only represent her faint, 
ing in the soldier's arms. But I subinit the 
matter to you, and beg your opinion. 

Allan desires me to thank you, for your ac- 
curate description of the stock and horn, and 
for the very gratifying compliment you pay 
him in considering hm worthy of standing in 
a niche by the side of Burns in the Scottish 
Pantheon. He ha=i seen the rode insttument 
you describe, so does not want you to send it ; 
but wishes to know whether you believe it to 
have ever been generally used as a musical 
pipe by the Scottish shepherds, and when, and 
in what part of the country chiefly. 1 doubt 
much if it was capable of any thing but rout- 
ing and roaring, a fiiend of mine says, he 
remembers to have heard one in his youngei 
days (made of wood instead of your bone), and 
that the sound was abominable. 
Do not, I beseech yoa, return aoj books. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

Dec 1794. 
It is, I asstire yon, the pride of my heart to do 
any thing to forward, or add to the value of 
your book ; and as I agree with you that the 
Jacobite song, in the Museum, to There'll 
never be peace till Jamie comes hame, would not 
so well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent 
love-song to the air, I have just framed for jou 
the following. 

MY NANNIE'S AWA. 
Tune — •There'll never be peace,' &o. 

Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays, 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er th . 

While birds warble welcome in ilka greeo 

shaw ; 
But to me it's delightlesa— my Nannie's awa. 



.AAJOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



The pnnw.drap and primrose our woodlandi 

And violets bathe in the ueet o' the morn ; 
Tbey pain mj sad bo30iu, sae sweetly they 

They mind me o' Nannie — and Nannie's awa. 

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews o' the 

The shepherd to warn o' the grey breaking 

dawn, 
&nd thou, mellow mavis, that bails the 

night-fa'. 
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 

Come, Autumn, sae pensive in yellow and grey. 
And sooihe rae wi' tidings o' Nature's decay, 
The dark dreary winter audwild diiving snaw, 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa. 

How does this please you? A3 to the point 
of time for the expression, in jour proposed 
print from my Sodger's retuim ; It must cer- 
tainly be al — * She gazed. ' The interesting 
dubisty and suspense, taking possession of her 
countenance; and the gushing fondness, with 
a mixture of roguish pla> fulness in his, strike 
me as things of which a master will make a 
freat deal. In great haste, but in great trulb 
jours. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
Jmiiwry, 1795. 

I fear for my songs ; however, a few may 
please, yet originality is a coy feature in com- 
position, and in a multiplicity of etforts in the 
same style, disappears altogether. For these 
three thousand years, we poetic folks have been 
describing the spring for instance ; and as the 
spring continues the same, there must goon be 
a sameness in the imagery. He. of these rbym- 
ing folks. 

A great critic, Aiken, on songs, says, that 
love and wine are the exclusive themes for song 
writing. The following is on neither subject, 
and consequently, is no song ; but will be al- 
lowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good 
prose thoughts, inverted into rhyme. 

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 

Is there for honest poverty 

That hangs his head, and a' that; 
The cowardslave, we pass him by ! 

We dare be poor for a' that. 
For a' that and a' that. 

Our toils obscure, and'a' that. 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp. 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What though on hamely fare we dine. 
Wear hoddin' grey, and a' that ; 

Gi*e fools their silks', and knaves iheir wine, 
A man's a man for a' that ; 

For a' that, and a' that, 

Tiieir tiusel show and a' that 1 



The honest man, thongh e'er lae pcory 
la king 0' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a Jord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that t 
Though hundreds worship at his word. 

He's but a coof for a' that; 
For a' that and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a' that, 
The man of independent mind. 

He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 
A marquis, duke, and a' that , 

But an honest man's aboon his might, 
Guid faith, he mannna fa' that ! 

For a' that, and a' that. 
Their dignities, and a' that 

The piih o' kense and pride o' worth. 



May bear the gree, and a* that. 
For a' that and a' that. 

It's coming yet for a' that, 
That man 10 man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a* that. 

I do not give yon the foregoing song for 
your book, but merely by way of Vive la haga. 
tells i for the piece is not really poetry. How 
will the following do for Craigie-bum wood 1 

Sweet fa'i the eve on Craigie-bnm, 
And blyihe awakes the morrow. 

But a' the pride o' spring's retnra 
Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 

I see the flowers and spreading trees, 

I hear the wild birds singing ; 
But what a weary wight can please. 

And care his bosom wringing f 

Fain, fain would I luy griefs impart. 

Yet dare na for y^ «r anger ; 
But seciet lore will break my heart. 

If 1 conceal it lariger. 

If thou refuse to pity me. 

If thou slialt love aniiher. 
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree. 

Around my grave they'll wither.* 



Farewell ! God bless yon. 



* Craigie-burn wood is situated on the banks 
of the river Moflat, and about three miles dis- 
tant from the village of that name, celebrated 
for its medicinal waters. The woods of 
Craigie-burnandof Dumcrief, wereat one timo 
favourite haunts of our poet. It was there 
he met the * Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,* 
and that be conceived several of his beautiful 



BUaNS. — COURESPONUENCE. 



No. LXVIIL 
MR THOiMSON TO MR BURNS. 

EdiiAursh, ZQIh Jan. 1795. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

I thank you heartily for Nannie's awof as we 
as for Craigii; burn, which I think a very come 
ly pair. Your observalioa on the difiicuay of 
original writing in a uumber of etforts, in the 
same style, serines me very forcibly ; and it hab 
Again and again excited my wonder to hnd you 
cbutinually surmounting this difSculty, in the 
many delightful songs you have sent me. Your 
vive la bagatelle song. For a' that, shall un- 
doubtedly be included in my list. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

Pebruari/, 1795. 

Hera is another trial at your favourite air. 

Tutie—* Let me in this m ui^ht. * 

O lassie, art thou sleeping yet. 
Or art thou wakin, I would wit. 
For love has bound ine hand and foot. 
And 1 would fain be iuf jo. 



O let me in this ae night* 

This ue. ae, ae night. 

For pity's sake this ae night. 



O rise and let u 



I, JO. 



Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks through the driving aleet, 
Tak pity on my weary feet. 
And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
O let me in, 6ic, 

The bitter blast that round rae blaws 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The caulduess o' thy heart '« the cause 
Of a* my grief and pain, jo. 
O let me in, &c. 

HER ANSWER, 

O tell na me o' wind and rain. 
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain, 
Ciae back the road ye cam again, 
I wiima let jou in, jo. 



I tell you now this ae night. 
This ae, ae, ae night ; 
-And ance for a' this ae night ; 
I winna let you in, jo. 

The snellest blast at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless wand'rer pourg, 
la nought to what poor she endures 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 
i tell you nowf dtc. 



The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead. 
Now trodden like the Tilest weed : 
Let simple maid the lesson read. 
The weird may be her ain, jo. 
1 tell vou now, &c. 

The bird that charm'd his summer-day, 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witlesp, trusting woman say 
How aft hsr fate's the same, jo. 
I tell you now, iie, 

I do not know whether it will do. 



No. LXX. 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

EcclefechaH, 7th February, 1795. 

MY DEAR THOMSON, 

You cannot have any idea of the predicament 
in whioh I write to you. In the course of my 
duty as supervisor (in which capacity I have 
ac'od of laie) I cauie yesternight to this un- 
furtunate, wicked, little village. 1 have gone 
forward, but snows of ten feet deep have im- 
peded my progress; I have tried to *gae b;ick 
the gate I cam again,' but the same ob^tac.a 
has shut me up wiihin insuperable bare. To 
add to my niistortune, since dinner, a scraper 
has been torturing catgut, in sounds that wouid 
have insulted the dying agonies of a sow, uiidt-r 
the hands of a butcher, and thinks biinsAlf. on 
that very account, exceeding good couipanj. 
In fact, I have been in a dilemma, either tu 
get drunk to forget these miseries; or to h^ng 
myself to get rid of them: like a prudent man, 
(a character congenial to my every tuou-^ni, 
word and deed,) I, of two evils have chosen 
the least, and am very drunk, at your service I*- 
I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I 
had not time then to tell you all 1 warned to 
say ; and heaven knows, at present, I have not 
capacity. 

Oo you know an air — I am sure yon must 
know it. We'll gang tiae mair to yon town? I 
think it slowish t'me, it would make an excel- 
ong. I am highly delighted with it ; and 
if you should think it worthy of your attention, 
e a fair dame in my eye to whom I would 



No. LXXI. 
MR THOMSON TO .MR BURNS. 



iaA Februan,, 1795. 



I have to thank you, my dear sir, for tw« 
epistles, one containing Let me in this ae nighty 
and the other from Ecelefechan, proving, that 



»Q& 



DIAWONDCABINET LIBRARY. 



drunk or sober^ your • mind is never muddy. 
You have displayed great address in the abov( 
eong. Her answer is excellent, and at th« 
same time takes away the indelicacy that other- 
wise would have attached to his entrtaties, 1 
like the song as it stands, very much. 

I had hopes you would be arrested some 
days at Hcclcfechan, and be oblifred to begui 
the tedious forenoons by song making, ll w 
five me pleasure to receive the verses you ii 
t«ud for O wat ye tvlia'-B in yon town. 



No. LXXII. 
MR BURNS TO WR THOMSON. 

May, 1795. 
ADDRESS TO THE WOODLaRK. 

Tune • Where'U bonnie Annie lie.' 

Or, • Loch-Erroch Side. ' 

O stay, sweet-warbling woodlark, stay. 
Nor quit for me ihe trembling spray, 
A helpless lover courts thy lay. 
Thy southing fono complaining. 



Stay, was thy little mate unkind, 

And heard tliee as the careless win 

Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join 

iiic notes o' woe could wauken. 



Or my poor heart is broken I 

'et me know your very first leisure how you 
_■ this song. 

ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. 

Tune — ' Aye wakin*. * 
Ckoi-us, 



Is on her bed of sorrow. 

Can I cease to care. 

Can I cease to languish. 

While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of anguish ? 
Long, &:e. 

Every hope is fled, 

Every fear is terror ; 
Slamber e'en I dread. 

Every dream is horror. 
Long, &c. 

Hear me, powers divine 1 



Qh, in pity b 



Take aught else of minet 
But my Chloris spare me ! ^ 

Long, &J. J 

How do yon like the foregoing ? The Irish 1 
air, '• Humours of Glen, "' is a great favourite ' 
of mine, and as, except the silly stuff in the ' 
♦ Poor Soldier, ' there are not any deceut 
versee for it, I have written for it as follow. 



SONG. 
• Humours of Glen. ' 
1* sweet myrtle let foreign lai 



.1 



VVher 



ight-beai 



ing s 



mmers exalt th 
e glen o' green 



Far dearer lo me 

Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow 
broom : 
Far dearer io me are yon bumble bn. m 



For there, lightly tripping amang the \ 
A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my J( 
Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay 



vallevs 






And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 

Their swee:-scented woodlanda that skin the 

proud palace, 

What are they ? The haunt o' the tyrant 

and slave ! 

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling 



Save Love's willing fetters, the chains o' his 
Jean. 

SONG. 

.., Tune — • Laddie, lie near me.* 

*Twas na her bonny blue e'e was my roii^ ; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 
"Twas the dear smile when nae body did mind 



Sa!r do I fear that to hope is denied me ; 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me : 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever. 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest. 
And ihou hast plighted me love o' the dearest ! \ 
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter. 
Sooner the sua in his motion would falter. 

Let me hear from yon. 



BURNS. —CORaESPONDBNCB. 



aS9 



MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

You must not think, my good sir, that 1 have 
»iiy intention to enhance the value of my gift, 
when I say, in Justice to the ingeaious and 

01 thy artist, that the design and execution of 

tiie Cotter's Saturday Night' is in my 
opinion, one of ihe happiest productions of 
Allan's pencil. I shall be grievously disap. 
pointed if you are not quite pleased with ii. 

The iigure intended for your portrait, I think 
eirikiiigly like you, as far a-. I can reuieni 
your pulz. This should make the piece iu 
oting lo your family every way. Tell 
wbetUer Wrs Burns finds you out among the 
iigures. 

I cannot express the feeling of adniirf 
with which I have read your pathetic • Address 
to the woodlark,' your elegant «Paneg)i 
on Caledonia,' and your afl'ecting versfS i 

• Chloris' illness. ' Every repealed perus 
«f these gives new delight. The other song 

• Laddie, lie near me,' though not equal to 
thesey is very pleasing. 



No. LXXIV. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD BNGLISH SOKG. 
Air — * John Anderson my jo.' 

How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only prize. 
And to the wealthy boobj, 

Poor woman sacritice. 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a clioice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's bate. 

Become a wretched wife. 

The ravening hawk pursuing. 
The trembling dove thus liies, 

To shun impelling ruin 
^ A while her pillions tries j 

Till of escape despairing. 
No shelter or retreat. 

She trusts the ruthless falconer. 
And drops beneath his feet. 

SONG. 

Tme—* Deil tak the wars.' 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion. 

Round the wealthy, titled bride: 
JJiit when compared with real passion, , 

Poor is all that princely pride. 

What are their showy treasures ? 

What are their noisy pleasures ? 
The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art. 

The polish 'd jewel's blaze. 

May dravf the wond'riiig gaze, 

And courtly grandeur bright. 

The fancy may delight. 
But never, never can come near the hearU 

But did yon see my dearest Chloris, 
la iimplicity 'a arxa> ; 



Lovely as yonder sweet opening Sower is, 
Shrinking from the gaze of day. 
O then the heart alarming, 
^ And all resistless charming, 
lu Love's delightful fetters she chains the will- 
ing soul ? 
Ambition would disown 
The world's imperial crown. 
Even Av'rice would deny 
His worshipp'd deity. 
And feel through every vein Love's raptuiea 
roll. 

Well this is not amiss. You see how J an- 
swer your orders : your tailor could not be 
more punctual. I urn just now in a high in 
of poetizing, provided that the strait-jacket of 
criticism don't cure me. If you can in a post 
or two administer a little of the intoxicating 
potion of your applause, it will raise your hum- 
ble servant's phrenzy to any height you want. 
I am at this moment •* holaing high converse'' 
with the Muses, and have not a word to throw 
away on such a prosaic dog as you are. 



MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
May, 1794. 
Ten thousand thanks, for your elegant preseii' i 
though 1 am ashamed of the value of :i, bein? 
who has not by any 
means merited such an instance of kindness. 
or three judges of tha 
lirst abilities here, and they all agree with ma 
classing it as a first-rate production. My 
liz is "sae kenspeckle, " that the very join- 
's apprentice whom Mrs Burns employed to 
break up the parcel (I was out of town that 
day) knew it at once. My most grateful com- 
pliments to Allan, who has honoured my rus- 
tic muse so much with his masterly pencil. 
One strange coincidence, is, that the linie one 
making the felonious attempt on ths 
il, is the most striking likeness of an 
;die, damn'd, wee, rumble-garie ur- 
chin" of mine, whom, from that propensity to 






ickedii€ 



ii.fu' 



a days auld I foresaw would form tha 
striking features of his disposition, I named 
"'"'e Nicol, after a certain friend of mine, 
s one of the masters of a gramziar-schoul 
ity which shall be nameless, 
e the inclosed epigram to my much- 
valued friend Cunningham, and tell him that 
i Wednesday I go to visit a friend of his, to 
whom his friendly partiality incpeaking of me, 

wn military and literary character, Colonel 

u do not tell me how yoa liked my two 
last songs. Are they condemned ?' 



No. LXXVL 
MR THOMSON TO MR BURISS. 

IBlh May, 1795. 
It gives me great pleasure to find that you »« 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBRARY. 



vert/ early, and suggested whom he should be 
named after, is curious enough. I am ac- 
quainted with that person, who is a prodigy of 
tearaiog and genius, and a pleasant fellow, 
though 110 saint. 

You really make me blush when you tell me 
you have not merited the drawing from me. 
I do not think I can ever repay you, or suf- 
ficiently esteem and respect you for the liberal 
and kind manner in which you have entered 
into the spirit of my undertaking, which could 
not have been peifected without you: So I 
beg you would not make a fool of me again, by 
•peaking of obligation. 

I like your two last songs very much, and 
wo happy to find you are in such a high fit of 
poetizing. Long may it last. Clarke has 
uiaJe a tine pathetic air to Mallet's superlative 
baiiail of * William and Margaret,' and is to 
five it to me to be enrolled among the elect. 



No. LXXVtL 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON.' 



• Whistle and I'll c 



ome to ye, my lad, 
ice Iteration of tbat line is tiresome to my ear. 
Here goes what I think is an improvement. 

O whistle iwd I'll come to je, my lad ; 
O whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad; 
Tho' fatnei- and mother, aud a' should gae 

Thy Jeauy will venture wi' ye, my lad. 

In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine, I, the 
Priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of 
I'arnassus : a dame whom the Graces have al- 
ttred iu witchcraft, and whom the Loves have 
armed with lightning, a Fair One, herself the 
heroine of the song, insists on the amendment ; 
itad dispute her commands if you dare ! 

SONG. 

Tune — • This is no my aia House. 

ChoruH 

O this is tiO mine ein laesie 
Fai^ though the iassie be ; 

O weel I ken mine ain lassie, 
E-ind love is in her e'e. 

1 gte a form, I see a face. 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest plice : 
It wants to me the witching grace. 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
O this is no, &c. 

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, 
And lang has had my heart in thrall ; 
And aye it charms my very saul. 
Hie kind love that's ia her e'e, 
•- O 4bis ii no, ite. 



A thief sae paukie h my Jmu* 
To steal a blink by a* unseen ; 
But gleg as lifht are lovers' e'en. 
When kind love is in her e'e. 
O this is uo, &c. 

It may escape the courtly spark*. 

It may escape the learned clerks ; 

But weel the watching lover marks. 

The kind love that's in ^er e'e. 

O this is no, ikc 

Do yon know that -^on have roused the f 
pidity of Clarke at last? He has requFt.ed1 
me to write three or four songs for him, whicU f 
he is to set to music himstlf. The inclo~ed f 
sheet poutains two tongs for him, w 
please to present to my valued friend Cuuuing ' 

I inclose the sheet open, both for your i. 
spection, and that jou may 'opy the song, • O 
bonny was yoa rosy brier.* 1 do not know 
whether I am right ; but that song pleases me, 
and as it is extremely probable "the Clarke's 
newly roused celestial spark will soon be 
smothered in the fogs of indulgence, if you 
like the song, it may go as Scottiih verses, t^ 
the air of, • I wish my love was in the mire , 
and poor Erskine's English lines may follow. 

I inclose you 'For a' that and a' that,, 
which was never in print : it is a much su- 
perior song to mine. I bare been told that it 
was composed by a lady. 

TO MR CUNNINGHAM. 

SCOTTISH SONG. 

Now spring has clad the gro^s in green. 

And strew 'd the lea wi' flowers ; 
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of woe ! 

The trout within yon wimpling burn 

Glides swift, a silver dart. 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art ; 
My life was ance that careless stream. 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love wi' unrelenting beam. 

Has scorch 'd my fountains dry. 

The little floweret's peacaful lot. 

In yonder cliff that grows. 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wof, 

Nae ruder visit knows. 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me pass'd. 

And blighted a' my bloom. 
And now beneath the with'ring blast. 

My youth and joy consume. 

The waken'd lav'rock warbling spriiigi. 

And climbs the early sky, 
"Winnowing blythe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye. 
As little reckt I sorrow's power. 

Until tbe'flowery sbu* 



BURNS COKRESPONDEWCE. 



O had my fate been Greenland's snows. 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi* man and nature leagued my foes. 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known I 
'Ihe vrreich whasedooni is • hope nae mair,' 

That tongue his woes can tell ! 
Within whase bosom, save despair, 

r^ae kinder spirits dwell. 

SCOTTISH SONG. 

bonny was you rosy brier. 

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man i 
Aiitt bonnie she, and ah ! how dear t 
It shaded frae the e'enin' eun. 

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew 

How pure, amang the leaves i&e green ; 

liul purer was the lover's vow 

I'be^ wituess'd in their shade yestreen, 

A»> in its rude and prickly bower, 

that crimsou rose, how sweet and fair ! 

Bui love is far a sweeter llower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 

And I the world, nor w.sU, nor scorn. 
Its joys auu griefs alike resign. 

Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the 
la^t edition of my poems presented tu the lad), 
whom, in so many bciitious reveries of pas-iou, 
but with the most ardent sentiiuenis of real 
friendship, 1 have so often sung under the name 
of Chioris. 

'Tis friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 

Mor thou the gift refuse, 
Ivor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms. 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms> 

To joiu the friendly few. 

Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 

Chill came the tempest's lour ; 
And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 
iJiO. uip a fairer llower.) 

Since life's gay scenes mast eharra no more, 

biill inuctt is left behind ; 
Siiii nobler wealth hast thou in store. 

The comforts of the mind t 

1 hine is the self approving glow* 

Uu C'jnscious honour's part ; 

And, dearest gift of heaven below, 

Tbiue {neadship 's truest heart. 



b every muse to rove ; 

And doubly were the poet bless'd 

T'a««e joys could be improve. 

Une bagatelle de I'amitit. 



No. LXXVUL 
MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 
Edinburgh, 3d Jug. 1795. 

SlY DEAR SIR, 

This will be delivered to you by a Dr Brian- 
ton, who has read your works, and ppnts for 
the honour of jour acquaintance. 1 do not 
know the gentleman, but his friend who ap- 
plied to me for this introduction, being an ex- 
cellent young man, I have uo doubt he is wor- 
thy of all acceptation. 

Wy eyes have just been gladdened, and my 
mind feasted, with jour last packet— full of 
pleasant things indeed. What an imagination 
is yours! it is superiluous to tell jou mat 
I am delighted with all the three songs, as 
well as your elegant and tender verses to Chio- 

I am sorry you should be induced to alter • O 
whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad,' to lbs 
prosaic line, • Thy Jeany will venture wi' je, 
my lad.' I must be permitted to say, that I 
do not think the latter either reads or sings so 
well as the former. I wish, therefore, you 
would in my name petition the charming 
Jeany, whoever she be, to let tiie line remain 
unaltered.^ 

I should be happy to see Mr Clarke produce 
a few songs to be joined to jour verses. Esery 
body regrets his writing so very little, as every 
body acknowledges his ability to write well. 
Pray, was the resolution formed coolly before 
dinner, or was it a niiduight vow made over a 
bow! of punch wiih the bard ! 

1 shall not fail to give Mr Cunningham what 
you have sent him. 

P. S The lady's • For a' that and a' lhat» 

is sensible enough, but no morelu b« compared 
to your's than i to Hercules. 



No. LXXIX, 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

ENGLISH SONG 

Turte—** Let me in this ae night." 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort n 

Far, far from thee 1 wander be**; 

Far, lar trom thee, the fate severo 

At which i most repine, love. 

ChoruH 

O wert thoa, love, but near me. 



* The Editor, who has heard the heroine of 
this song sing it herself in tbe very spirit of 
arch simplicity that it requires, thinks Mr 
Thomson's petition unreasonable, if we mis- 
take not, this is the game lady who produced 
the itues tc thti tune ol • ko/i Wae,' o tH-i. 



i^ 



And shelter, shade, nor home hi 
bave in these arms of thine, love. 
O wert, Stc 



Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part 

To poisoD fortune's ruthless dart — 

Let me not break thy faithful heart. 

And 8a> that fate is mine, love. 

O wert, &c 

But dreary though the moments fleet, 
O lei me think we yet shall meet I 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Con on thy Chloris shine, love. 
O wert, &C. 

How do you like the foregoing P I have 
written it within this hour : so much for the 
speed of my Pegasus ; but what say you to his 



No, LXXX. 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

SCOTTISH BALLAD. 

r«ne— 'The Lothian Lassie.' 
Last May a braw wooer came down the lang 



DIA1«0ND CABINET LIBRARY. 

Guess ye how the jad I could bear her, conJi 

bear her. 
Guess ye how the jad I could bear her. 

But a* the neist week as I fretted wi* care, 
I gaed to the tr-.ste of Dalgarnock, 

And wlia but my fine fickle lover was there I 
I glowred as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 
I glowred OS I'd seen a warlock. 



gkr 



And 6 



r wi' his love he did deav 
[ said their was naelhing I hated li 
The deuce gae wi m, to believe i 



The deuce ffie w 



o belie' 



He spak o* the darts in my bonnie black e'en. 
And vow 'd tor my love he was dying : 

1 said be might die « hat he liked for Jean, 
The Lord forgi'e me for lying, for lying. 
The Lord forgi'e me for lying ! 

A weel-stocked mailen, himsel' for the laird, 

I never loot on that I kend it, or cared, 
iiut thousht 1 might hae waur offers, waur 

offers, 
But thought I might hae waur offers. 

But v%hat wad you think S in a fortnight or less. 

The de il tak his taste to gae near her ! 
He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,* 



* In th« original MS. this line runs, 'He 
up the Gateslack to ray black cou&in Bess :' 
i\ir Thomson objected to this word, as well as 
to the uoid ' Dalgarnock in the next verse. Mr 
Burns replies as follows; 

* Gatesiack is the name of a particular place, 
■ ' jtlier hi'.ls, 



« 



m kind u 
on the 



.>the 



s of thi 



mty.' 



« Dalgt 



Nith, where are stil'. a ruined church and a 
burial-ground.' However, let the first line 
ru!;,«He up the lang loan, &c. 

It is always a pity to throw out any thing 
that gives locality to our poet's venes. 



But owre my left shoaiher 1 gae him a blink. 
Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; 

My wooer he caper 'd as he'd been in drink, 
Audvoiv'dl was his dear lassie, dear las* 

And Tow'd I was his dear la.'8ie. 

I spear'd fr my cousin fu' couthy and sweet. 
Gin she had recover'd her hearin. 

And how lier new shcon tit her auld shachlet 
feet. 
But heavens ! how he fell a swearin, a 

But beaveus ! how be fell a swearin. 

He begged for Gudesake ! I wad be his wife. 



Orel 



3 I would kill 



I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 
FRAGMENT. 

Tune—' The Caledonian Hunt s delight. 



Why, why tell thy lover. 



Bliss he n 



enjoy ; 



O why, white fancy, raptured slum!'^ 
Chloris, Chlorisall the thems. 

Why why wouldst thou, cruel. 
Wake thy lover from his dream. 



Such is the peculiarity of the rbyikm of this 
air, that I find it impossible to make another 
Stanza to suit it. 

I am at present quite occupied with the 
charming sensations of the toothache, bo have 
not a word to spare. 



No. LXXXL 

MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

SdJutie, 1795, 
MV DEAR SIR, 



and your | 



Your English verses to ' Let t 
tender and beautif 
ballad to the * Lothian Lassie' is 
for its buinour and naivtte. The frag'nent for 
Caledotiiaii bun;' is quite suited to the 
al measure of the air, and, as it plagues 
you so, the fragment must content it. I would 
rather, as I said before, have bad Bacchanalian 
words, had it so pleased the poet ; but neverthe- 
less for what we have received. Lord make qi 
thankful. 



BURNS. -CORRESPONDENCE. 



No. LXXXII. 
MR THO.\ISON TO MR BURNS. 

Bth February, 1796. 
O Robby fiurnaara you sleeping yet ? 
Or are je wauking, I would wit ? 

The pause you have made, my dear sir, is aw- 
ful I Am 1 never to hear from jou again ? I 
know and I lament how much you have been 
aiilicted of laie, but 1 trust that returning 
Lealth and spirits will now enable jou tore- 
suaie the pen, and delight us with )Our dius- 
ings. I have still about a Uozen Scoitish and 
Irish airs thai 1 wiso ♦•married to immortal 
verse. " \Ve have several irue-boru Irishmen 
ou the Scottish list ; but they are now natu- 
ralized, and reckoned our own good subjects. 
Inueed we have none better. 1 believe I be- 
fore told you that i have been much urged by 
soaie fr.ends to publish a collection of all our 
favourite airs auCl songs in octavo, embellisaed 
with a number of etchings by our ingenious 
friend Allan ; what is your opinion of this ? 



No. LXXXIII. 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 
February, 1796. 
Slauy thanks, my dear sir, for your hand- 
some, elegant present, to Mrs B — , and 

for my remaining v.lume of P. Pindar.— 
Peter is a delightful fellow, and a first favour- 
i.e 01 mine. 1 am miich pleased with your 
ici*a of publishing a collection of our songs in 
octavo with etchings. I am extremely willing 
to lend every assistance m my power. The 
irish airs I shall cheerfully undertake the task 
of li tiding verses for. 

1 have alread), jou know, equipped three 
with words, and the other day 1 sLruug up i 
ki.\a of rhapsody to another Hibernian melody 



ich 1 adm 






HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER. 

TaTie— • Balinamona Ora. * 

Awa wi' your witchcraft o* beauty's alarms, 
'i ne slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms ; 
O, gie me llie lass that Uas acres o' charms, 
O, gie me the lass wi ' the weel-stockei farms. 



Then hey for a lass wi ' a tocher, then hey for 

a lass wi' a tocher. 
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher ; the nice 



Your beauty 's a flower, in the 



Ilk spring they're new deckit w 
Then, hey, SiCt 



And e'en when this beaaty ydVr besom has 

bless'd. 
The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when po»- 



Bat the swi 
pre.i 



:t yellow darlings wi* Geordie im- 
d, 

them— 'the mair they 're ca- 



Thelange 

ress 'd. 

Then, hey, &c. 

If this will do, y</U have now four of my 

Irish engagement. In my bye past songs, f 

dislike oue thing : the name Chloris — I meant 

the ficiilious name of a certam lady : 

n second thoughts, it is a higti incongru- 

lave a Green appellation to a Scottish pa». 

to'ral ballad.— Of this and some things else. 



my II 
gaut d( 



U hal 



entiuned of * 
-Of this albt 



No, LXXXIV. 

MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

Your •• Hey for a lass wi* a tocher' ' is a 
most excellent song, and with you the subject 
is something new indeed. It is the htst iiuis 
1 have seen you debasing the god of soft de- 



1 am happy to liud you approve of my pro* 
posed octavo edition, Allan has designed and 
etched about tweniy plates, and 1 am lo have 
my choice of them for that work. Indepen- 
dently ot the Uugarihian humour with wnicti 
they abound, they exhibit the character and 
costume of the Scottish peasaniry with luimit 
bie felicity. In this respect be himself says, 
tnev wiiljfar exceed the aquatinta plates he did 
for the ' Geiitie Shepuerd, ' because in the 
etching, he sees clearly what he is uomg i but 
not so with tlie aquatinta, which he could uot 
manage to his mind. 

Tile Datcn boors of Ostade are scarcely more 
cliaracieristic and natural, than the Scollish 



No. LXXXV. 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 
Was, my dear Thomson, I fear it will be som 
lime ere I tune my l)re again! ''By Babel 
streams I have sal and wepi. '' almost ever since 
I wrote JOU last ; 1 have onlj knovv ii existence 
by the pressure of the heavy hand of sickness ; 
anc* have counted time by tbe repercussions of 
pa.n 1 Rheumalisiii, cold, and tever, have 
lormvd lo me a lerribie combiuat on. 1 close 
my ejes in misery, and open ihein without 
hope. I look ou the vernal nay , and say witb 
poor Feigussou^ 



* Oor poet never explained what na 
wonld have substituted for Chloris.— 
by iHr Thomson. ' 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBKARY. 



This will be delirered to yon bv a Mrs 
Hyslop, latidladj if the Globe tavern here, 
«Thich for these many years has been my howf, 

• nd wbere our friend Clarke and I had many 
a merry sqaeeze. I am highly deli^nted with 
Mr Allan's etchinfs. « Woo'd and married 
Bnd a" is admirabfe! The proupin^ h beyond 
all praise. The expression of the tigures, con- 
formable to the story io the ballad, is absolute- 
Iv faultless perfeclion. I nert admire • Turn- 
imspike. • What I like least is, 'Jenny ^a•d 
to Jockie.' Besides the female bein? in her 

• ppearance .... if you take her stoop- 
tns; inio the account, she is at least two incoes 
laller than her lover. Poor Cleehorn I I Mn- 
aeneiy sympathize wilh bim. Happy I am to 

hink that he has a well-grounded hope of 
health and enjoyment in this world. An for me 
^bat that is a . . . . subject I 



No. LXXXV 

MR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 

4th May, 1796. 

I need not tell yoa, my good sir, what concern 
the receipt of your last gave me, and how much 
I sympathize in your sufferings. But do not. 
I beseech you, give yourself up to despondency, 
nor speak the language of despair. The vigour 
of your constitution, I trust, will Boon set you 
on your feet again ; and then, it is to be hoped, 
you will see the wisdom and the necessity of 
taking due care of a life so valuab.e to your 
fiiends and to the world. 

Trusting that your next will bring agreeable 
accounts of your convalescence, and retirni'.g 
food spirits, 1 remain, with sincere regard. 



Although thou maun nevm- be Mine, 
Although even hope is denied ! 
Tis sweeter for thee despairing 
Than aueht in the world beside— Jessie ! 
Here's a health, &c. 

I mourn through the gay, gaudy day. 
As, hopelsss, I muse on thy charm* ; 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber. 
For then I am lock'd in ihy anas — Jessie I 
Here's a health, &e. 

I goess by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by the love-rolling e'e; 
But why urge the tender confession 

•Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree— JesiW I 
Here's a health, &c.* 



No. LXXXV IIL 
MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

This will he delivered by a Mr Lewnrs, 
young fellow of uncommon merit. As he w 
be a day or two in town, you will have leisure, 
if YOU choose, to write me by him ; and if yoe 
have a spare half hour to spend with him', 1 
shall place your kindness to my account. I 
have no copies of the songs I have sent you, 
and I have taken a fancv lo review them all, 
and possibly may mend some of them ; so when 
you have complete leisure, I will thank yon for 
either the orisrinals, or copies. f I nad rather 
be the author of hvo well-written son?s ihaa 
or ten otherwise. I have great hopes That ti.a 
genial intluence of the approaching summer 
w ill set me lo righis, but as yet I canno' boas! 
of returning health. I have now rea^^on ta 
bflieve tnat my complaint is a flying gout ; « 



; know how Cleghorn ii 






This should have been delivered to you a 
mnnth a^o. I am still very poorly, but should 
liie much to hev from you. 



No. LXXXVIL 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

1 once mentioned to von an air which I have 
long admired, • Here's a health to them that's 
Rwa, hiney,' hot I forget if you took any no- 
tice of it. 1 have just been trying to suit it 
with verses ; and I beg leave to recommend the 
c<r tu your attention once more. 1 have only 
trgun iu 

Chorus. 

Here'" a heilth to ane I lo'e dear, 
H ere's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 
Tbcu art sweet as the smile when fond 

▲ud Mtt M the parting tear— Jessie t 



I No. LXXXIX. 

MR BURNS TO MR THOMSON. 

' WJiJuly, 1796. 

After all ray bv>asled independence, cursfd necea 
sity compels me to implore you for five pounds, 

A cruel of a haberdasher, f« 

whom I owe an account, taking it into hu 
head that I am dying, has commenced a pro- 

I ' 

« * In the letter to Mr Thomson, the three 
' first stanzas only are given, and Mr Thoni^o'i 
supposed our poet had never gone fariher. A- 
mong his MSS. was, however, found ib«> 
fourth stanza, which completes th'S exquibito 
soug, the last finished offspring of his muee. 

t It is needless to say, that this revisal BiuM 
did uo' live to perform. 



BURNS— CORRESPONDENCE. 



^05 



e«ta. and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, 
fur God's sake^ send me that sam, and that by 
return of post. Forgive me this earnestness, 
but the horrors of a Jail have made me half dis- 
tracted. I do not silk all this gratuitously ; for 
upon returning healib« I bereby promise and 
engage to furnifth you with five pounds worth 
of the neatest song genius you have seen. I 
tried my hand on * Rothiemurche' this morn- 
ing. The measure is so difficult, that it is im- 
possible to infuse much genius into the lines ; 
they ara on the other side. Forgive, forgive 

SONG. 

Tune — ' Rothiemurche. 

Fairest maid on Devon banks. 

Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 
Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
And smile as (hou were wont to do. 

Full well thou know'st I love thee dear, 
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear ! 
O did not, love, exclaim • Forbear ! 
Nor use a faithful lover so. ' 
Fairest maid, iic 

Then come thou fairest of the fair. 
Those wonted smiles, O let me share ; 
And by that beauteous self 1 swear, 
No love but thine my heart shall know. 
Fairest maid, kcX 



by Mrs Hyslop, I have been rnminathij^ la 
what manner I could endeavour to aUeviate 
your sufferings. Again and again I thought 
of a pecuniary offerT but the recollection of one 
of your letters on this subject, and the fear of 
offending your independent spirit, checked my 
resolution. I thank you heartily, thfrefore, 
for the frankness of your letter of the 13th, and 
with great pleasure inclose a draft for the very 
sum I proposed sending. Would I were th« 
Chancellor of the Exchequer but for one day, 
for jour saka. 

Pray, my good sir, is it not possible for you 
to muster a volume of poetry ? If too much 
trouble to you in the present slate of your 
health, some literary friend might be foui d 
here, who would select and arrange from your 
manuscripts, and take upon him the (ask of 
Editor. Ill the meantime it could be advertis; 
ed to be publiEhed by subscription ? Do not 
shun this mode of obtaining the value of your 
labour; remember Pope published the Iliad by 
subscription. Think of this, my dear Burns, 
and do not reckon me intrusive with my ad- 
vice. Yon are too well convinced of the res- 
pect and friendship I bear you, to impute any 
thing I say to any unworthy motive. Yours 
faithfully. 

The verses to * Rothiemurche' will answei 
finely. I am happy to see you can still tuue 
your lyre. 



No. XC. 
WR THOMSON TO MR BURNS. 
Uik My, 1196. 



* These Tertea, and tht lettar iacloeing thcm^ 



I written in a eharacler that marks the vet} 
feeble state of their author. Mr Syme is ol 
opinion that he could not have been ia any 
danger of a jail at Dumfries, where certainly 
he had many firm friends, nor under any neces- 
sity of imploring aid from Edinburgh. But 
about this time his mind began to be at times 
unsettled, and the horrors of a jail perpetually 
haunted hie iniagination. He died on the Sla^ 
sf tbit month. 

U 



APPENDI X, 



It ma; eratifv curiosity to know some particulars of the hiEtory of the preceding Poems, »■ | 
which the celebritj- of our Bard has been hitherto founded; and with this Tiew the following : 
esti-acl is made vrom a letter of Gilbert Biirns, the brother of our Poet, and his £rieud and cod- 



h^ant from his earliest jiears. 



Uossgid, 2d April, 1798. 
DEAR SIR, 

Your letter of the 14th of March I received 
in the due course, but from the hurry of the 
reason, have been hitherto hiudered from an» 
sweriiig it. I will now try to give you what 
eatisfactioalcan in regard to the particulars 
jou mention. 1 cannot pretend to be very ac- 
curate in respect to the dates of the poems, but 
none of them, except • Winter, a Dirge' (which 
was a juvenile production,) the 'Death and 
Dying words of poor Mailie, ' and some of the 
songs, were composed before the year 17S-4. 
The circumstances of the poor sheep were pret- 
ty much as he has described them ; he had, 
partly by way of frolic, bought a ewe and two 
lambs from a neighbour, anu she was tethered 
in a field adjoining the house at Lochlie. He 
and I were going out with our teams, and our 
two younger brothers to drive for us, at mia- 
day, wheu Hugh Wilson, a curious-lookiug 
awkwara boy, clad iu plaiding, came to us 
with mncn anxiety in his face, witb the in- 
formation that the ewe had entangled herself in 
the tether, and was lying in the ditch. Rob- 
ert was much tickled' with Hugh?c's appear- 
ance and postures on the oecaiion. Poor Mailie 
■was set to rights, and vihen we returned from 
the plough in the evening, he repeated to me 
ber • death and dying words' pretty much in i 
the way thsy now stand. _ I 

Among the earliest of his poems was the 
* Epistle to Davie. ' Uobert often composed j 
witaout any regular plan. When any thing j 
made a strong impression on h.s mind, so as to j 
rouse it to any poetic exertion, he would give ; 
way to the impulse, and embody the thought in j 
rhyme. If he hit on two or three stanzas to I 
ptease him, he would then think of proper in- 1 
troductory, connecting, and concluding stan- | 
sus ; hence the middle of a poem was often 
first produced. It was, I think, in summer, | 
1784, when in the interval of harder labour, 
he and I were weeding in the garden XkaU- 
yard), that he repeated to me the principal part 
of this epistle. I believe the first idea of Rob- 
ert's becoming an author was started on this 
oicasiou. 1 was much pleased with the epis- , 
Ue, and said to him i was of op aioa u would i 



bear being printed, and that it would be well 
received by people of taste ; that I thought it 
at least eqnal, if not superior, to many of Al- 
lan Ramsay 's epistles, and that the merit of 
these, and much other Scottish poetry, seemed 
to consist principally in the knack of the ex- 
pression — but here, there was a strain of in- 
eresting sentiment, and the sscotticism of the 
language scarcely seemed affected, but appear- 
ed to be the natural language of the poet; that, 
besides, there was certainly some novelty in a 
poet pointing out the consolations that were in 
store for bim when he should go a-begging. 
Robert seemed very well pleased with my cri- 
ticism ; and we talked of sending it to soma 
magazine, but as this plan afforded no oppor- 
tnoity of knowing how it would take, the idea 
was dropped. 

It was, I think, in the winter following, as 
we were going together with carts for coal to 
the family fire (and I could yet p|oint out the 
particular spot) that the author first repeated 
to me the * Address to the Deil. ' The curious 
idea of such an address was suggested to him, 
by running over in his mind the many ludi- 
! accounts and representations we have, 
varions quarters, of this august persu", 
age, • Death and Dr Hornbook, ' though not 
published in the Kilmarnock ediuon, was pro- 
duced early in the year 1785. The school- 
master of Tarboltou parish, to eke up the scau- 
ty subsistance allowed to that useful class of 
men, set up a shop of grocer> goods. Having 
accidentally fallen in with some medical books, 
and become most hobby- horsicaly attached to 
the study of medicine, he had added ibesaJeof 
a few medicines to his litUe trade. He bad 
got a shop-bill printed, at the bottom of which, 
overlooking his own incapacity, he bad adver- 
tised, that Advice would be given in cominoo 
disorders at the shop, gratis. Robert was at 
a mason meeting, in Tarbolton, when the 
♦ Dominie' nnfortana'.ely made too ostenta- 
tious a display of his medical skill. As be 
parted in the evening from this mixture of pe- 
dantry and physic at the place where h^ de- 
scribes his meeting with Death, one of tlios« 
floating ideas of apparition, he mentions in his 
letter to Dr Moore^ crossed his mind; this sel 
him to work for the rest of the way home. 
Tbes« circumstances he related when he re- 



BURNS. -APPENDIX. 



307 



p«ated ilie verses to me next afternooot as I 
wab holding the plough, and he was jetting the 
WMer ott' the field beside me. The « Epistle 
to Joha Lapraik' was produced exaetl; oa the 
occ&sioa described by the author. He says in 
that poem, • On fasten e'en we had a rocltin' 
(p, 214). I beliere he has omitted the word 
rocking in the glossary. It is a term derived 
from those priuiitiTe hmes, when the country- 
womea employed their spare hours in spin- 
ning on the rock, or distaff. This simple in- 
strument is a very portable one, and well fit- 
ted to the social inclination of meeting iu a 
neighbour's house ; hence the phrase of • going 
a-rocking, or with the rock. ' As the connec- 
tion the phrase had with the implement was 
forgotten when the rock gave way to the spin- 
DJng-wheel, the phrase came to be used by 
both sexes on the social occasions, and uen 
talk of going with taeir rocks as well as 
women. 

It was at one of these rockings at our house, 
when we had twelve or fifteen young people 
with their rocks, that Lapraik's song, begin- 
ning — • When I upon thy bosom lean,' was 
•ung, and we were informed who was the 
author. Upon this Robert wrote his first epis 
tie to Lapraik ; and his second in reply to hi; 
answer. The verses to the Mouse and Moun 
tain Daisy were composed on the occasion: 
mentioned, and while the author was holding 
the plough: 1 could point out the particular 
spot where each was composed. Holding 
the plough was a favourite situation with 
Robert for poetic compositions, and son 
his best verses were produced while he w 
that exercise. Several of the poems were 
duced for the purpose of bringing forward : 
favourite sentiment of the author. He used 
to remark to me, that he could not concei 
moremortifjiug picture of human life, than a 
man seeking work. In caatiog about in his 
mind how this sentiment might be brought 
forward, the elegy, • Man was made to Mourn, * 
was composed. Robert had frequently r( 
marked lo me, that he thought there was somi 
xhing peculiarly venerable in the pSrase, ♦ ' Li 
tis worship God," used by a decent sober 
bead of a family introducing family worship. 
To this sentiment of the author, the world is 
indebted for the * Cotter's Saturday Night.' 
The hint of the plan, and fitie of the poemj 
were taken from Fergussor's Farmer's Ingle. 
When Rober.. had cot some pleasure in view 
in which 1 was nut thought fit to participate, 
we used frequently lo walk together when the 
weather was favourable oc the Sunday after, 
noons ( those precious breathing-times t( 
labouring part of the community), and erjoy- 
ed such siuudays as would make one regret to 
sej their number abridged. It was in one of 
taese walks that I first had the pleasure 
hearing the author repeat the • Cotter's Satu 
day Nighu ' I do not recollect to have read 
heard any thing by which I was more highly 
electrified. The fifth and sixth stanzas, and 
tha eighteenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstasy 
through my soul. I mention this to you, that 
you may sea what hit the taste of unlettered 
•riticism. I should be glad to know, if the 
entigbteued mind and refined taste of Mr 
Uuscue, who has borne sucb honourable testis 
RMajr lo tbit poem, agrees with me ii> the 



selection. Fergusson, in his * Hallow Fair of 
Eainburgh,' I believe, likewise furnished s bint 
of the title and plan of the ' Holy Fair. » The 
farcical scene the poet there describes wag 
often a favourtie field of his observation, and 
the most of the incidents he meutioni had ac* 
tually passed before his eyes. It is scarce!/ 
neceskary to mention, that ' The Lament' was 
composea on that unfortunate passage in his 
matrimonial history, wkich I have mentioned 
in my letter to Mrs Daulop, after the first dis- 
trastion of his feelings had a little subsided. 
• The Tale of Twa Dogs' was composed after 
the resolution of publishing was nearly taken. 
Robert had a dog, which be called Luath, 
that was a great favourite. The dog had been 
killed by the wanton cruelty of some person 
the night before my father's death. Robert 
said to me, that he should like to confer such 
immortality as he could bestow upon his old 
friend Luath, and that he had a great mind to 
introduce something into the book under tha 
title of • Stansas to the Memory of a quadrc- 
ped Friend :' but this plan was given up for 
the Tale as it now stands. * Caesar' was mere- 
ly the creature of the poet's imagination, crea- 
ted for the purpose of holding chat with uia 
favourite Luath. The first time Robert beard 
the spinnet played upon was at the house of Dr 
Lawrie, then minister of the parish of Loudon, 
now in Glasgow, having given up the parish 
iu favour of his son. Ur Lawrie has several 
daughters; one of them played: the faiher 
and mother led down the dance; the rest of 
the sisters, the brother, the poet, and the other 
guests, mixed in it. It was a delightful familj 
scene for our poet, then lately introduced to 
the world. His mind was roused to a poetic 
enthusiasm, and the stanzas, p. 197, were 
left in the Room where be slept. It was lo Dr 
Lawrie that Dr Blacklock's letter was addres- 
sed, which my brother, in his letter to Dr 
Moore, Dientious as the reason of his going to 
E&inburgh. 

VVheu my father feued his little property 
near Allowa\-Kirk, the wall of the church- 
yard had gone to ruin, and cattle had free liber* 
ty of pasture lu it. My father, with two or ih/ea 
other neighbours, joined in an application !o 
the town council of Ayr, who were supeiiora 
of the adjoining land, for liberty to rebuiJd it, 
and raised by subscription a sum for inclosing 
this ancient cemetery with a wall : hence he 
came to consider it as his burial place, anu we 
learned that reverence for it people generally 
have for the burial-place of their auces'i,rs. 
My brother was living in Ellisland, whea 
Captain_Gro5e, on his peregriations thrvugU 
Scotland, stayed some time at Carse-house ia 
the neighbourhood, with Captain Robert Rid- 
del ol Glenriddel, a particular friend ot my 
brother's. The Antiquarian and the I'l'ct 
were '• Unco pack and thick thegither. " Ko- 
bert requested of Captain Grose, when he 
should come to Ayrshire, that he would make 
a drawing of Ailoway-Kirk, as it was the 
burial-place of his father, where he himself 
had a sort of claim to lay down his bones when 
they should be no longer serviceable to him j 
and added, by way of encouragement, that it 
was the scene of many a good story of witcbea 
and apparitions, of which be knew the Captata 
waa very fond. The Captain agre«£ lo the f 



8C8 



DUMOND CABIXET LIBRARY. ' 



quest, provided the poet would fornish a witch 
■tory, to be printed along with it. " Tam o' 
Shanter" was produced on this occasion, and 
was first published in « • Grose's Antiquities of 
Scotland." 

The poem is founded on a traditional story. 
The leading circumstances of a man riding 
home very late from Ayr, in a stormy niglit, 
his seeing & light in AUoway Kirk, having 
the cariosity to look in, his seeing a dance of 
Pitches, with the devil playing on the bag-pipe 
to them, the scanty covering of one of the 
witches, which made him so far forget himself 
as to cry — *' Weel loupeu, short sark !" — with 
Ibe melancholy catastrophe of the piece ; it is 
all a true story, that can be well attested by 
many respectable old people in that neighbour- 

1 CO not at present recollect any circumsfan- 
ees respecting the other poems, that could 
be at all interesting ; even some of those I 
Vave mentioned, I am afraid, may appear tri- 
fling enough, but jou will only maie use of 
what appears to you of consequence. 

The following poems in the first Edinburgh 
edition were not in that published in Kil- 
marnock, • Death and Dr Hornbook ;' • The 
Brigi of Ayr;' 'The Calf;' (the poet had 
been with Mr Gavin Hamilton in the morning, 
who said jocularly to him when he was going 
to church, in allusion to the injunction of some 
parents t« their children, that he must be sure 
to bring a note of the sermon at mid-day ; this 
address to the Reverend Gentleman on his text 
wag accordingly produced;) 'Ordination;' 
•The Address to the Unca Gaid ;' 'Tam 
Samson's Elegy ;' * AWinter Night ;' • Stan- 
zas on the same occabion as the preceding 
Eray^r ;' • Verses left at a Reverend Frieco's 
ease ; ' • The first Psalm , ' ' Prayer under 
the pressure of violent anguish;' ' The first 
six Verses of the ninetieth Psalm ;' ' Verses 
to Wiss Logan, with Beaitie's Poems ;' 'To 
a Haggis;' "Address to Edinburgh;' 'John 
Barleycorn;' 'When Guilcford Guid ;' 'Be- 
hind you hills where Stinchar flows ;' • Green 
grow the Rashes;' 'Again rejoicing Nature 
sees;' 'The gloomy Night;' 'No Church- 
man am L' 

If you have never seen the first edition, it 
will I perhaps, not be amiss to transcribe the 
preface, that you may see the manner in which 
the Poet made his tirst awe-strnck approach 
to the bar of pobiic judgment4 

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION 

OF BURNS'S POEMS PUBLISHED AT 

KILMARNOCK, 

•• The following Trifles are not the produc- 
tioQ of the poet, who, with all the advantages 
of learned art, and peihaps, amid the elegances 
and idlenesses of upper life, looks down for 
a rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus or 
Virgil. To the author of this, these and other 
celebrated names, their countrymen, are, at 
least in theix original languages « a fountain 
•hut up, and a book sealed.' Unacquainted 
i»ith the necessary requisites for commenc.cg 
poet by rule, he sings the sentiments and tuan- 
orts he felt and saw in himself and his rustic 
aauifctn around bim, in hi« und their uati>b 



language. Though a rhymer from his earliest 
years, at least Irom his earliest impulses of the 
softer passions, it was not till very lately that 
the applause, perhaps the partiality, of friend- 
ship, awakened his vanity so far as to make 
him think any thing of his worth showing : 
and none cf the following works we 
ed with a view to the press. To a _ 

self wiih the little creations of his own fancyr^ 
amid the toils and fatigues of a laborious life s^ 
10 transcribe the various feelings, the loves, 
the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his own 
breast ; to find some kind of counterpoise to 
the struggles of a wcrld, always an alien scene, 
a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these 
were his motives for courting the muses, ana 
in ihese he found poetry to be its own reward. 

" Now that he appears in the public charac- 
ter of au author, he does it with fear and trem. 
bling. So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, 
that even be, an obscure, nameless Bard, 
shrinks aghast at the thought of being branded 
as— an impertinent blockhead, cbirudiug his 
ucnsense on the world! and, because he can 
make a shift to jingle a few doggerel Scotch 
rhymes together, looking upon himself as a 
poet of no small consequence forsooth ! 

" It is an observation of that celebrated pcet 
Shenslone, whose divine elegies do honour to 
our language, our nation, and our species, that 
'Humility has depressed many a genius to a 
hermit, but never raised one to lame ! ' If any 
critic catches at the word 'genius,' the author 
tells him once for .all, that he certainly looks 
upon himself as possessed o( some poetic atili- 
lies, otherwise his publishing in the manner 
he has done, would be a mancEuvre below the 
worst character which he hopes his worst 
enemy will ever give him. But to the genius 
of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the 
poor unfortunate Fergusson, he, wiih equally 
unaffected sincerity, declares, that even lu his 
h.gtiest puli-e cf vanity, he has not the most 
distant pretentions, these two justly admir 
ed Scottish poets he has often had iu his eye in 
the following pieces I but rather with a view 
to kindle at their flame, than for servile imita- 

" To his subscribers the Author returns 
his most sincere thanks. Not the mercenary 
bow over a counter, bat the heart-thro tbing 
gratitude of a bard, conscious how much he 
owes to benevolence and friendship, for grati- 
fying him, if he deserves it, ia that dearest 
wish of every poetic bosom — to be distinguish- 
ed. He teg5 his readerg, particularly the learn- 
ed and the poiite, who may honour him wiih a 
perusal, that they will make every allowance 
for education and circumstances of life ; but, 
if after a fair, candid, and impartial criticism, 
he shall stand convicted of dulness and non- 
sense, let him be done by as he would in that 
case do by others — Let him be condemned, 
without mercy, to contempt and oblivioiu" 



% 



I mnst obedient humble servant, 

GILBERT BURNS. 



Dr CuRBIE, Lirerpool. 



BURNS. —APPENDIX. 



To this history of the poems wbicb are con- 
tained in this volume, it ma; be added, that 
our author appears to have made little altera- 
tion in them after their original compositioDy 
except in some few instances, where consider- 
able additions have been introduced. Afte 
he had attracted the notice of the public bv hi 
first edition, various criticisms were offered 
bim on the peculiarities of his bt^le, as well at 
of his sentiments, and some of these which re- 
main among his manusripts, are by persons ol 
great tasie and judgment. Some few of these 
criticisms he auopled. but far the gieater part 
he rejected ; and, though something has bj 
means been lost in point of delicacy and < 
rectnesj, ^et a deeper impression is left of the 
•trength and originaliij of his genius. The 
firiune&s of our puel's character, arising from 
a just conlideDce in his own powers, may, in 
part explain his tenaciousness of his peculiar 
expressions ; but it may be in some degree ac- 
counted for also, by the circumstances under 
which the poems were composed. Burns did 
not, like men of genius born under happier 
auspices, retire, in the moment of inspiration, 
to the silence ana solitude of his study, and 
eomuiit his verses to paper as they arranged 
themselves in his mind. Fortune did not af- 
ford him this indulgence. It was during the 
toils of daily labour that his fancy exerted 
itelf ; the muse, as he himself informs us, 
found him at the plough. In this situation, it 
was necessary to tix his verses on his memory, 
and it was often many da,>s, nay weeks, after 
a poem was finished, before it was written 
down. During all this time» by frequent re- 
petition, ihe association between the thought 
and the expression was contirmed, and the im- 
partiality of taste with which written language 
IB reviewed and retouched after it has faded on 
the memory, could not in such instances be 
exerted. The original manuscripts of many 
of his poems are preserved, and they differ in 
nothing material from the last printed edition. 
borne few variations may be noticed. 

1. In The 'Aurhot's earnest Cry and 
Prayer', after the Stanza, p. 93, beginnings 

Erskine, a spuakie Noreland Billie, 

there appears, in his book of manuscripts^ the 
folio wing :— 

rhee, sodger Hugh, my watchman stented 

If Bardies e'er are represented ; 

1 ken if that your sword were wanted 

Ye'd lend jour hand, 
fiat when there's ought to say anent it. 

Ye're at a stand. 

* Sodger Hugh' is evidently the present Earl 
of £gl iuCon, then Colonel Montgomery of 
Coilsfield, and representing in Parliament the 
county of Ayr. Why this was left out in 
printings does not appear. The noble Earl 
will not be sorry to see this notice of him, 
familiar though it be, by a bard whose genius j 
be admired, and whose fate be lamented. 

2. In • The Address to tfae ])eil,' the seventh 
•tanza, in page 17(i, ran originally thus : j 

Lang syne in Eden's happy scene, 
Wh«u stfbppia' Adam's days were green. 



And Eve was like my bonnie Jeon. 

My dearebt part» 
A dancin', sweet, young, handsome quean, 
Wi' guUtless heaiu 

3. In The Elegy on poor Mailie, the lecoud 
stanza, in page 177. beginning. 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 

was, at first, as follows : 

She was nae get o' runted rams, 

Wi' woo' like goats, and legs like trams ; 

ishe was the ilower o' Faiilie lambs, 

A famous breed ; 
Now Robin, greetin, cbows the hams 

O Mailie deud. 

It were a pity that the Fairlie lambs should lose 
the honour uiice intended them. 

4. But the chief variatiuus are found in tha 
poems introduced, for the first time, in the edi- 
tion in two volumes small octavo, published in 
1792. Of the poem written in Friar's Car»« 
Hermitage there are several editions, and one 
of these* has nothing in common wuh the 
printed poem but the four first lines. The 
poem that is published, which was his second 
effort on the svbject, received considerable tim 
terations in printing. 

Instead of the six lines beginning. 

Say man's true genius estimate^ 

in manuscript the following are inserted. 

Stay ; the criterion of their fate. 
Til' important query of their state. 
Is not, art thou bigh or low ? 
Did thy foriune ebb or flow ? 
Wert thou cottager or king ? 
Prince or peasant ?— no such thing. 

5. The • Epistle to R. G. of F. Esq. ' that 
is, to R. Graham of Fintry, Esq. also under- 
went considerable alterations, as may be collect- 
ed from the volume of Correspondence. Tliis 
style of poetry was new to our poet, and 
though he was fitted to excel in it, it cost him 
more trouble than his Scottish poetry. Ou 
the contrary, • Tam o' Sbanter seems to have 
issued perfect from the author's brain. 'Iha 
only considerable alteration made on retlectiuii 
is the omission of four lines, which had been 
inserted after the poem was finisiied, at tha 
end of the dreadful catalo^'ue of the ariiclea 
found on the ' haly table,' and wi-ich appear- 

1 in the first edition of the poem, printed sepa* 
tely. They came after the sixth line from 
the bottom of p. 216, 

Which even to name woiud be uplawfu*. 



^ Thit it gi%ea in tli« Cerrespoadeitsct 



DIAMOND CABINET LIBKaRT. 



&Qd priests* hearts, retten, black as muck ; 
La; stiakiog rile ia ererj neak. 

These Unes, which, iodepeadeat of other ob- 
fections, interrupt and cestroy the emotions 
of terror which the preceding description had 
excited, were very properly left out of ihe print- 
ed collection, by tbe advice of Mr Fraser 
Tytler; to which Burns seems to have paid 
some deference. 

6. • "Hie Address to the shade of Thomson >' 
pa?e 217, be^an in the manuscript copy in the 
following manner; 

While cold-eyed Spring, a virgin coy. 
Unfolds her verdani'mante sweet. 

Or prai.ks the sod in frolic joy, 
A carpet for her jouthful fe«t t 



While cDBamer, with a mairon's pre»\ 

Walls stalely in the eooaog shade; 
Adc oft deligbted lo es to trace 

The progress of the spiky blade ; 
While autumn, benefactor kind. 

With age 's hoary honours clad. 
Surveys, with self-approving mind. 

Each creature on his bounty fed, &e. 

By the alteration in the printed poem, it m^j 
be questioned whether the poetry is much iin. 
proved ; ths p-et however has foauu means to 
introduce the shades of Dryburgh, thb residenca j 
of the Earl uf Buchan, at whose request thesafl 
verses were written. m 



might be extended, bnt 

e already offered will satisfy curiosity, 
and I here is nothino' of any imporlaace that 
00 aid be added. 



GliOSSARY 



Hie ch afld gh have always the guttural sound. The sound of the English diphthong oo, is ecu 
monly spelled ou. The French u, a sound which often occurs in the Scottish laaguoge, 
marked oo, or ui. The a in genuine Scottish words, except when forming a diphthong, i 
followed by e mute after a single consonant, sounds generally like the bioad'^Engiish a in wal 
The Scottish diphthong «, afways, and ea, very often, sound like the French, t masculin 
The Scottish diphthong *y, sounds like the Latin ei. 



A', All. - 

Aback, away, aloof. 

Abeigh, at a shy distance. 

Aboon, above, up. 

Abread, abroad, insight. 

Abreed, in breadth. 

Addle, putrid water, &c. 

Ae, one. 

Aft', off; Affloof, unpremeditated. 

Afore, before. 

Aft, oft. 

Aften, often. 

Agley. off the right line ; wrrng. 

Aiblins, perhaps. 

Ain, own. 

Airle-penny, Airles, earnest money, 

Aith, an oath. 
Aits, oats. 
Aiver, an old horse. 
Aizle, a hot cinder. 
Alake, alas. 
Alane, alone. 
Akwart, awkward. 
Amaist, almost, 
Amang, among. 
Au'. and; An, i£, 
Alice, once. 
A.ie, one ; and. 
Antnt, over against. 
Anither, another. 

Asklent, asquint ; aslant, 

Asteer, abroad ; sUrniit,. 

Atbart, athwart. 

Aught, possession; as. In a my aught, in all 
my possession. 

Auld lang syne, olden lime, days of other 
years. 

Auld. old. 

Auldfarren, or, auld farraot, sagacious, cun- 
ning, prudent. 

Ava, at all. 

Aw a', away. 

Awfu', awful. 

Awn, the beard of barley, oato. ito. 



Ba', BalL 

Backets, ash boards. 

Backlins coming, coining back, returning. 

Jtiack, returning. 

Bad. did bid. 

Baide, endured, did stay. 

Baggie, the belly. 

Banie, having large bones, stout. 



hild. 



family of children, a brooJ. 
Baith, both. 
Bau, to swear. 
Bane, bone. 

Bang, to beat ; to strive. 
Bardie, diminutive of bard. 
Barefit, barefooted. 
Barmie, of, or like barm. 
Batch, a crew, a gang. 
Bats, bots, 
Baudrons, a cat. 
Bauld. bold, 
Bawk, bank, 

Basn't, having a "White stripe down the face. 
Be. to let be ; to give over, to cease. 
Bear, barley. 

Beastie, diminutive of beast. 
Beet, to add fuel to fire. 
B.ld, bald, 
Belyve, by and by, 

Beu, into the spence or parlour; a spei.ee. 
Benlomond, a noted mountain in i^ui;-ijartcn« 

Bethankit, grace after meat. 

Beuk, a booK. 

Bicker, a kind of wooden dish; a short rac«. 

Biel or Bield, ahelter. 

Bien, wealthy, plentiful. 

Big, to build. 

Biggin, building; a house. 



Bill, i 



uilu 



Birk, birch. 



bull. 

a brother ; a young fellow, 
heap of grain, potatoes, Sea. 



S12 



BURNS. -GLOSSARY, 



■mail 



Birkea-shaWf Birohea-wood-sbaw, 

wood. 
Birkie, a jlerer fellow. 
fiirriDg, the uoise of patridge*, &e. when they 

spriug. 
Bit, crisis, uick of time. 
Bizz, a bust'.e, to buzz. 
B)a<^tie, a shrivelled dwarf ; a term of con* 

teiupt. 
Blastit, blasted. 
B>ate, babbful, sheepish. 
Blather* bladder. 

Biadd, a Hat piece of any think; k) slap. 
Blaw, to blow, to boast. 
Bleerit, bleared, sore with rheum. 
Bleert and blin', bleared and blind. 
Bleezing, blazing. 
Biellum, an idle talking fellow. 
Blether, to talk idly ; nonsense. 
Bleth'riH*, talking idlj . 
Bliuk, a little while; a smiling look; to look 

kiiidlj ; to shine by tits. 
Blinker, a term of contempt. 
Biinkin, smirking. 
Blue-gown, one of those beggars* who get 

nuaily, ou the king's birih-daj, a blue cloak 

or gjv.u, wiih A badge. 
Bluid, Mood, 

Biantie, a sniveller, a shipid person. 
Bljpe, a shred, a large piece. 
Bock, to vomit, to gusb iutermittenil; 
Bocked, gushe<i, vomited. 
Bodle, a small gold coin. 
Bogles, spirits, hcbgoblins. 
Bonnie or Bonny, handsome, beautiful. 
Bounock, a kind of thick cake of bread, a 

small jannock, or loaf made of oat-meaU 
Boord a board. 
Boortree, the shrab elder; planted much of 

old in hecges of barn-yards, &c« 
Boost, beiia»ed,,must needa. 
Bore, aholein the wall. 

Bousing, drinking. 

Bow-kail, cabbage. 

Bowt. bended, crooked, 

Brackens, fern. 

Brae, a declivity ; a precipice ; the slope of a 

hill. 
Braid, broad. 
Braindg't, reeled forward. 
Braik, a kind of harrow. 
Braindge, to run ra»hiy forward. 
Brak, broke, made insoivent. 
Branks, a king of wooden curb for horses. 
Bra^b, a suddea illnes. 
Brats, course clothes, rags, he 
Brattle, a short race ; hurry ; fury. 
Braw, tine, handsome. 
Brawly or Brawlie, very well ; finely ; 

heartily. 
Braxie, a morbid sheep. 
Breaatie, diminutive ot breast. 
Breasttt, did spring up or forward. 
Breckan, fern. 

Breef, an invulnerable or irrebistible spelL 
Breeks, breeches. 



Brewin', bre- 



>oth. 



'ing. 



Brie, juic 
Brig, abridge.* 
Brunstane, brimstone. 
Brisket, the breast, the bokom. 



Brither, a brother. 

Brock, a badger. 

Brogne, a hum ; a trick. 

Broo, broth ; a trick. 

Broose, broth ; a race at eoDntry weddinf^s, 

who shall first reach the bridegroom's bouts 

on returning from church. 
Browster-wives, ale-house wives* 
Brugh, a burgh. 
Bruilzie, a broil, a comhustian. 
Brunt, did burn, burnt. 
Brust, to burst ; burst. 
Bucban-bullers, the boiling of the sea among 

the rocks of Buehan. 
Buckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia. 
Bugbt, a pen, 
Bughtin-time. the time of colUcting the sheep 

in the pens to be milked. 
Buirdly, stout made ; broad made. 
Bum. clock, a humming beetle ttiat flies in tbs 

summer evenings. 
Bumming, humming as bees. 
Bummle, to blunder. 
Bummler, a blunderer. 
Bunker, a window-seat, 
Burdies, diminutive of birds. 
Bure, did b«ar. 
Burn, water, a rivulet. 

Burnowin, t. e. burn the wlad, a blacksmith. 
Burnie, diminutive of bora. 
Buskie, bushy. 
Buskit, dressed. 
Busks, dresses. 
Bussle, a bustle ; to bustle. 
Buss, shelter. 
But, bot, with ; without. 
But an' ben, the country kitchen and parlour 
By bimsell, lunatic, distracted. 
Bjke, a bee-hive. 
Byre, acow'Siable ; a sheep-pen. 



CA', to call, to name ; to drive. 

Ca't or Ca'd, called, driven j calved. 

Cadger, a carrier. 

Cadie or Caddie, a person ; a young fellow. 

Caff, chaff. 

Caird, a tinker. 

Cairn, a loose heap of stones 

Calf-ward, a small enclosure for calves. 

Callan, a boy. 

Caller, fresh ; sound ; refreshing. 

Canie or Cannie, gentle, mild ; dexti'rous. 

Cannilie, dexterously ; gently. 

Cantie or Canty, cUeertul, merry. 

Cantraip, a charm, a spell. 

Cape-stane, cope-stoue j kej -stone. 

Careerin, cheerfully. 

Carle, an old man. 

Carha, a stout old woman. 

Cartes, cards. 

Caudron, a caldron. 

Cauk and keej, chalk and red clay. 

Cauld, cold, 

Caup, a wooden drinking vesseU 

Cesses, taxes. 

Chanter, a part of a bagpipe. 

Chap, a person, a fellow ; a blow. . 

Chaup, a stroke, a blow, 

Cheekit, cheeked. 

Cheep, a chirp; to chirp. 

Ciiiei or Cheel, a young fellow. 



♦ 



BURNS.- GLOSSARY. 



KfS 



Chimla or Cbimlie, a fire-grate, a fire-place. 
Chiuila.lDg, the fireside. 

Chittering, shivering, trembling. 

Chockin, choking. 

Chow, to chew : Cheek for ehoWf eide by side. 

Chuffie, fat-faced, 

C.achan, a small village about a church ; a 
bamieU 

Claise or Claes, clothes. 

Claith, clotb. 

Claichiog, cluthiag. 

ClaiTers, nonsense ; not sense. 

Clap, clapper of a mill. 

Clarkit, wrote. 

Clash, an idle tale, the story of the day. 

Clatter, to tell idle stories ; an idle glory. 

Claugbt, snatched at, laid bold of. 

Ciat, to clean ; to scrapes 

Clauted, scraped. 

Ciavers, idle stories. 

Claw, to scratch. 

Cleed, to clothe. 

Cleeds, clothes. 

Cleekit, having caught. 

Cli:kin, jerking, clinking. 

Clinkumbell, he who rings the chnrchbell. 

Clips, shears. 

Clishmaclaver, idle conversation. 

Clock, to hatch ; a beetle. 

Clockin, hatching. 

Cloot, the hoof of a cow, sheep, (Sjc. 

Clootie, an old name for the devil. 

Clour, a bump or swelling after a blow. 

Cluds, cloudL. 

Coaxin, wheedling. 

Coble, a fishing boat. 

Cockeroony, a lock of hair tied npor. a girl's 

head ; a cap. 
Coft, bought. 
Cog, a wooden dish. 
CoiTgie, diminutive of cog. 
^o;la, from Kyle, a district of Ayrshire ; so 
called, saiih tradition, from Coil, or Coilut, 
a Pictish monarch. 
Collie, a general and sometimes a particular 

name for country curs. 
Colliesbangie, quarrelling, an uproar. 
Commaun, command. 
Cood, the cud. 
Coof. a blockhead, ninny. 
Cookit, appeared and disappeared by fits. 
Coost, did cast. 
Coot, the ancle or foot. 

Cootie, a wooden kitchen dish : — also, those 
fowls whose lege are clad with feathers are 
said to be cootie. 
Corbies, a ipeciee of the crow. 
Core, corps ; party ; clan. 
Corn'd, fed with oats. 

Cotier, the inhabitant of a cot-bouse, or cot- 
tager. 
Coutbie, kind, loving. 



a gang. 



Cove 

Cowe, to terrify ; to keep under, to lop ; Jo cut, 

fright ; a branch of furze, broom, &c. 
Cowp, to barter ; tumble 
Cowpit, tumbled. 
Cowrin, cowering. 
Cowt, a cxjlt. 
Cozie, siiug. 
Coziely, snugly, 
Crabbit, ojrabbed, fretfuL 



Crack, conversation ; to Ci 

Crackin, conversing. 

Craft, or croft, a field near a bouse (in M 

husbandry). 
Craiks, cries or cal!s incessantly ; a bird. 
Crambo-clink or Crambo-jmgle, rhymf«, dog- 
Crank, the noise of an ungreased wheel, 
Craukous, fretf-il, captious. 
Cranreuch, the hoar frost. 
Crap, a crop ; to crop. 
Craw, the crow of a cock ; a rook. 
Creel, a basket i to have one's wits in a creel, 

to be crazed ; to be fascinated. 
Creepie-stool, the same as cutty-stool. 
Creeshie, greasy. 
Crood, or croud, to coo as a dove. 
Croon, a hollow and continued moan; to 

make a noise like the continued roar of a 

bull ; to hum a tune. 
Crooning, humming. 
Crouchie, crook backed. 
Croose, cheerful ; courag'eous. 
Crousely, cheerfully ; courageously. 
Crowdie, a composition of oat-meal and boil- 
ed water, sometimes from the broth of beef. 

mutton, &c 
Crowdie-time, breakfast time. 
Crowlin, crawling. 

Crummock, a cow with crooked horns. 
Crump, hard and brittle j spoken of bread, 
Crunt, a blow on the head with a cudgel. 
Cuit', a blockhead, a niuny. 
Cummock, a short staff with a crooked head. 
Curchie, a courtesy. 
Curler, a player at a game on the ice, praa 

tised in Scotland, called curling. 
Curlie, curled, whose hair falls naturaUy ia 

ringlets. 
Curling, a well known game on the ice. 
Curmurring, murmuring} a slight rumbling 

Curpin, the crupper. 

Cushat, the dove, or wood-pigeon. 

Cutty, short ; a spoon broken in the middl*. 

Cutty-stool, the stool of repentance. 



DADDIE, a father. 

Daffin, merriment ; foolishnese. 

Daft, merry, giddy ; foolish. 

Daimcu, rare, now and then ; daimen-icker, w 

ear of corn now and then. 
Dainty, pleasant, good humoured, agreeabU* 
Daise or Daez, to stupify. 
Dales, plains, valleys. 
Darkling, darkling. 
Daud, to thrash, to abuse. 
Daur, to date. 
Daurt, dared. 
Daurg or Daurk, a day's labour. 



Davoc, Davi^ 

Dawd, a large piece. 

Dawtit or Dawtet, fondled, caressed. 

Dearies, diminutive ot dears. 

Dearthfu', dear. 

Deave, to deafen, 

Deil-tna oare, no matter, for all that. 

Deleerit, delirious. 

Descrive, to describe. 

Uight, to wipe ; to clean corn from otui& 



8U 



BURNS.— GLOSSARV. 



Dig bt, cleaned from chaff. 

Din^, to worst, to push. 

Dink, neat, tidj, trim. 

Dinoa, do not. 

Dirl, a slight tremulous stroke or pain. 

Dizen oF'Dizz'n, a dozea. 

Doited, stapid, hebetated. 

Dolt, stupid, crazed. 

Donsie, unlucky. 

Dool, sorrow ; to slug dool, to lameut, to 

Doos, doves. 

Dorty, saucv, nice. 

Douce or Douse, sober, wise, prurient. 

Doucely, soberly, prudently. 

Dought, was or were able. 

Doup, backside. 

Doup-skclper, one that strikes the tail. 

Dour and din, sullen and sallow. 

Dnure, stout, durable ; sullen, btubburn. 

Do>*, am or are able, can. 

DowfF, pithless, wanting force. 

Dowie, Mora with grief, fatigue, care; half 

asleep. 
Downa, am or are not able, cannot. 
Doylt, stupid. 

Dozeot, ^tupified, impotent. 
Drap, a drop ; to drop. 
Draigle, to soil by trailing, to draggle among 

wet, &c. 
Drapping, djoppiug. 

Drauntin|f, drawling ; of a slow enunciation. 
Dreep, to ooze, to drop. 
Driegh, tedious, long about it. 
Dribble, drizzling j slaver. 
Dr ift, a drove. 
Droddum, the breech. 
Drone, part of a bagpipe. 
Droop-rumpl't, that droops at the crupper. 
Droakit, weU 
DrouDting, drawling. 
Drouth, thirst, drought. 
Drucken, drunken. 
Drumly, muddy. 
Drammock, meal and wafer mixed ia ^ raw 

state. 
Druiit, pet, sour humour. 
Dub, a small pond. 
l>uds, rags, clothes. 
Duddie, ragged- 
Dung, worsted ; pushed, driven. 
Duntad, beaten, boxed. 
Dubh, to push as a a ram, &c. 
Dusht, pushed by a ram, ox, &c. 



Eerie, frighted, dreading spirits. 
Eild, old age. 
Kibuck, the elbow. 
Eldritch, ghastly, frightful. 
Eller, an elder, or church officer. 

Enbrugh, Edinburgh. 
KiieugQ, enough. 
Especial, especially. 
F.tile, to try, to attempt. 
biieatt diiigcnU 



FA.*, fall ; lot j to fell. 
Fa'i, does fall; water-fallflk 
Faddom't, fathomed. 
Fae, a foe. 



Faer 









Faiket, bated. 

Fairin, a fairing ; a present. 

Fallow, fellow. 

Fand, did find. 

Farl, a cake of oaten bread, &e. 

Fash, trouble, care ; to trouble, to care fas. 

Fasht, troubled. 

Fasieren e'en, Fasten's even. 

Fauld, a fold ; to foid. 

Faulding, folding. 

Faut, fault. 

Faute, want, lack. 

Fawsont, decent, seemly, 

Feal, a field ; smooth. 

Fearfu', frightful. 

Feart, frighted. 

Feat, neat, spruce. 

Fecht, to tight. 

Fechtin, fighting. 

Feck, quantity, plenty 

Fecket, an under waistcoat with sleeves. 

Feckfu', large, brawny, stout. 

Feckless, puny, weak, silly. 

Feckly, nearly. 

Feide, feud, enmity. 
Feire, stout, vigorous, healthy. 
Fell, keen, biting ; the fle^h immediately un- 
der the skin ; a £eld pretty level, on the i<a» 

or top of a hill. 
Fen, successful struggle ; fight. 
Fend, to live comfortably. 
Ferlie or Ferley, to wonder : a wonder : a 

term of contempt. 
Fetch, to pull hi fits. 
Felch't, pulled intermittently. 
Fidge, to fidget. 
Fiel, soft, smooth. 
Fient, fiend, a petty oath. 
Fier, sound, healthy ; a brother ; friend. 
Fissle, to make a rustling noise; lo fidget; 

a bustle. 
Fit, a foot. 
Fittielan', the nearer_horse of the hindmost 

pair in the plough. 
Fizz, to make a hissing noise, like fermenta 

ton. 
Flauiiin, flannel. 

Fleech, to supplicate in a flattering manner. 
Fieech'd, supplicated. 
Fleeching, supplicating. 
Fleesh, a fleece. 
Fleg, a kick, a random stroke. 
Fletlier, to decoy by fair words. 
Fleiherin, flattering. 
Flej, to scare, to frighten. 
Flichter, to flutter, as young nestlings wbfB 

their dam approaches. 
Flinders, shreds, broken pieces, splinters. 
Fiinging-tree, a piece of liniljer hung by v. ay 

of partition between two horses in a stable' : 

a flail. 
Flisk, to fret at the yoke. Fliskef, fretlrd. 
Flitter, to vibrate lite the wings ©f bui»' 

birds. 



BURNS.— GLOSSARY. 



315 



FHUering, flntterjn». Titrating, 

Flunkie, a servant in livery. 

Fodgel, squat and plump. 

Fooid, a ford. 

Forbears, forefather*. 

Forbye, besides. 

Forfairn, distressed ; worn out, laded. 

Forfoughten, fatigri^ed. 

Forgather, to meet, to encounter with. 

Forgie, tP forgive. 

Forjeskel, jaded with fatigue. 

Folher, fodder. 

Fou. full ; drunk. 

Foughten, troubled, harassed^ 

Foutb, plenty, enough, or more than enough. 

Fow, a bushel, &c ; also a pitch-fork. 

Frae, from ; off. 

Frammii, strange, estranged from, at enmity 

with. 
Freath, froth. 
Frien*. friend. 
Fu', full. 

Fud, the scut, or fail of the hare, cony, &C, 
Fuff, to blow intermittently. 
Fuff't, did blow. 
Funnie, full of merriment. 
Fur, a furrow. 
Furm, a form, bench. 
Fyk, trifling cares ; to piddle, to be in u fuss 

about trifles. 
Fyle, to soil, to dirty. 
Fyl't, soiled, dirtied. 



Gab, the mouth ; to speak boldly, or pertly. 

Gaberlunzie, an old man. 

Gadsman, a ploughboy, the boy that drives the 

horses in the plough. 
Gae, to go ; gaed, w«nt ; gaen organe, gone ; 

gaun, going. 
Gael, or gate, way, manner ; road. 
Gairs, triangular pieces of cloth sewed on the 

bottom of a gown, &c. 
Gang, to go, to walk. 
Gar, to make, to force to. 
Gar't, forced to. 
Garten, a garter. 

Gash, wise, sagacicns , talkative ; to converse. 
Gashin, conversing. 
Gaucy, jolly, large. 
Gaud, a plough. 

Gear, riches ; goods of any kind. 
Geek, to toss the head in wanconness w scorn. 
Ged, a pike. 

Gentles, great folk, gentry. 
Genty, elegantly formed, neat. 
Geordie, a guinea. 
Get, a child, o voung one. 
Ghaist. a ghost. 

Gie, to give j gied, gnve ; giei> jiven. 
Giftie, diminutive of gift. 
Giglels, playful girls. 
Gillie, diminutive of gilL 
Gilpey, a half grown, half informed boy or 

girl, a romping Ian, a hoiden. 
Cimmer, a ewe from one to two years old. 
Gin, if; against. 
Gipsey, a young girl. 
Girn, to grin, to twist the features in rage, 

agony, &c 
Giruiog, grioaing. 



Gizz, a periwig. 
Glaiket, inattentive, foolish. 
Glaive, a sword. 

Gawky, half-witted foolisfi, romping. 
Glaizie, glittering; smooth like glasB. 
Glaum, to snatch greedily, 
m'd, aimed, snatched. 
Gleck, sharp, ready, 
Oleg, sharp, ready, 
Glieb, glebe. 

Glen, a dale, a deep valley. 
Gley, a squint ; to squint ; a-gley, off at a 

side, wrong. 
Glib-gabbet, smooth and ready in speech. 
Glint, to peep. 
Glinted, peeped. 
Giintin, peeping.- 
Gloamin, the twili^rlit. 
Glowr, to stare, to look ; a stare, a look. 
Glowred, looked, stared. 
Glunsh, a frown, a sour loot. 
Goavin, looking round with a strange, inquir- 
ing gaze, staring stupidly. 
Gowan, the flower of the wild daisy, hawk- 
weed, &c. 
Gowany, daised, abounding with daisies. 
Gowd, gold. 
Gowff, the game of golf; to strike as the bat 

does the ball at golf. 
Gowff'd, struck. 

Gowk, a cuckoo ; a term of contempt. 
Gowl, to howl. 

Crane, or grain, a groan ; (o groan. 
Grain'd and grunted, groaned and grunted. 
Graining, groaning. 
Graip, a pronged instrnment for cleaning 

stables. 
Graith, accoutrements, furniture, dress, gear. 
Grannie, grandmother. 
Grape, to grope. 

Grapit, groped. 

Grat, wept, shed tears. 

Great, intimate, familiar. 

Gree, to agree j to bear the gree, to be decid 
edly victor. 

Gree't, agreed. 

Greet, to shed tears, to weep. 

Greetin, crying, weeping. 

Grippet, catched, seized. 

Groat, to get the whistle of one's great, to 
play a losing game. 

Grousome, loathsomely grim. 

Grozet, a gooseberry. 

Gruuipb, a grunt j to grunt. 

Giuniphie. a sow. 

Grun*, ground. 

Grunstane, a grindstone. 

Gruntie, the phiz ; a grunting noise. 

Grunzie, mouth. 

Grushie, thick; of thriving growth. 

Gude, the Supreme Being; good. 

Guid, good. 

Guid-morning, good morrow, 

Guid-e'en, gcod evening. 

Guidman and guidwife, the master and lais. 
tress of the house ; young guidman, a man 
newly married. 

Guid-willie, liberal ; cordial. 

Guid-father,' guid- mother, father-in-law, taA 
mother-in-law. 

Gully, or gullie, a large knife. 

Gumlie, muddy. 



BURN& ^GLOSSARY. 



Gasty, tastefaU 



HA». haj. 

Ha'-Bb e, the great b.T)le that liei in the hall. 

llae, to hare. 

Haen, had, the participle. 

Haet, tient haet, a pettj oath of negation ; no- 
thing. 

Haffet, the temple, the side of the head. 

Hafflins, nearly half, partly. 

Hagr, a scar, or gulf in mosses, and moors. 

Haggis, a kind of pudding boiled in the sto- 
mach of a cow or sheep. 

H-din, to spare, to save, 

Hain'd, spared. 

Hairst, harvest. 

Haiih, a petty oath. 

Haivers, nonsense, speaking without thought. 

Hal', or Hald, an abiding place. 

Hale, whole, light, healthy. 

Haly, holy. 

Hallao, a particular partition-wall in a cot- 
tage, or more properly a seat of turf at the 
outside. 

Hallowmas, Hallow-eve, the 31st of October. 

Hame, home. 

Hamely, homelv, affable. 

Han', or Hann', hand. 

Hap, an outer garment, mantle, plaid, && to 
wrap, to cover ; to hop, 

Happer, a hopper. 

Happing, hopping. 

Hap step an' loup, hop skip and leap. 

Harkit, barkened. 

Harn, very coarse linen. 

Hash, a fellow that neither knows bow to 
dres3 nor act with propriety. 



it, has 



ned. 



Haud, to hold. 

Haughs, low lying, rich lands ; valleys. 

Haurl, to drag; to peeL 

Haurlin, peeling. 

Haverel, a half-witted person ; half-witted. 

Havins, good manners, decorum, good sense. 

Hawkie, a cow, properly one with a white 

Heapit, heaped. 

Healsome, healthful, wholesome. 

Hearse, hoarse. 

Heather, heath. 

Hech ! oh I strange ! 

Hecht, promised ; to foretell something that 

is to be got or given ; foretold ; the thing 

foretold; offered. 
Heckle, a board, in which are fixed a number 

of sharp pins, used in dressing hemp, iiax, 

&c. 
Heeze, to elevate, to raise. 
Helm, the rudder or helm. 
Herd, to tend flocks ; one who (ends flocks. 
Herrin, a herring. 
Herry, to plunder ; most properly to plunder 

birds' nests. 
Herrjment, plundering, devastation. 
Hersel, herself; also a herd of cattle, of any sort. 
Het, hot. 

Heuph, a crag, a coalpit. 
Hileh, a hobble ; to balU 
Hiicbin, heltinf. 



Himsel, hinseir, 

Hiney, honey. 

King, to hang. 

Hirple, to walk craiily, to creep. 

Hissel, so many cattle as one person eu at« 

tend. 
Hastie, dry ; chapped ; barren. 
Hitcb, a loop, a knot. 
Hizzie, a hussy, a young girl. 
HoJdin, the motion of a sage countryman rid* 

ing on a cart-horse ; humble. 
Hog-score, a kind of distance line, in curling, 

drawn across the rink. 
Hog-shouther, a kind of horse play, by justling 

with the shoulder; tojustle. 
Hool, outer skin or case, a nut shell ; a pea8«> 

cod. 
Hoolie, slowly, leisurely. 
Hoolie ! take leisure, stop. 
Hoord, a board ; to hoard. 
Hoordit, hoarded. 
Horn, a spo<}n made of horn. 
Hornie, one of the many names of the devil. 
Host, or boast, to cough ; a ooogh. 
Hostin, coughing. 
Hosts, coughs. 

Hotch'd, turn'd topsyturvy ; blended, mixed. 
Houghmagaodie, fornication. 
Houlet, an owl. 
Housie, diminutive of booses 
Hove, to heave, to swell, 
Hoved, heaved, swelled. 
Howdie, a midwife. 
Howe, hollow; a hollow or dell. 
Howebackit, sunk in the back, spoken of ' 

horse, ft a. 
Howff, a tippling house; a house of resort, 
Howk, to dig. 
Howkit, digged. 
Howkin, digging. 
Howlet, an owL 
Hoy, to urge. 
Koy't, urged. 
Hoyse, to pull upwards. 
Hoyte, to amble crazily. 
Hughoc, diminutive of Hugh. 
Hurcheon, a hedgehog. 
Hurdies, the loins ; the crupper. 
HusliioD, a cushion. 



Icker, an ear of com. 

ler-oe, a great-grandchild. 

Ilk, or Ilka, each, every. 

IlUwillie, ill-natured, malicious^ niggardly. 

Ingine, genius, ingenuity. 

Ingle, fire ; fire-place. 

Ise. I shall or will. 

Itber, other ; one another. 



JAD, jade ; also a familiar term among eon* 

try folks for a giddy young girl. 
Jauk, to dally, to trifle. 
•Taukin, trifling, dallying. 
Jaup, a jerk of water ; to jerk as agiiat' 

Jaw. cearse raillery; to posr out ; to sbut* v 
jerk as water. 



BURNS — GLOSSARY. 



Jerkinet, a jetltln, or short gown. 

Jillet, a jilt, a ffiddy girl. 

Jimp, to jump ; slender ia the waiet ; hand. 

J imps, easy stays. 

J ink) to dodge, to tarn a eorcer ; a sadden 

turning ; a corner. 
Jinker, that turns quickly; a gay sprightly 

girl ; a waff. 
JJakin, dodging. 
J irk, a jerk. 

Joeleleg, a kind of knife. 
Jouk, to stoopi to bow the head. 
Jow, to jow, a verb which includes both the 

swinging motion and pealing sound of a 

large belL 
Jandie, tojustlc 



KAE. a daw. 

Kail, colewort; a kind of bf»th. 

lS.ail-runt. the stem of coleworu 

Kain, fowls, ice paid as rent by a farmer. 

Kebbuck, a cheese. 

Keekle, to giggle ; to titter. 

Keek, a peep, to peep. 

Kelpies, a sort of mischievous spirits, said to 

haunt fords and ferries at night, especially 

in storms. 
Ren, to know ; Kend or Kenn'd, known, 
Kennin, a small matter, 
venspeckle, well known, easily known. 
Cet, matted, hairy ; a fleece of wool, 
lilt, to truss up the clothes. 
„immer, a young pirl, a gossip. 
Kin, kindred; Kin', kind, (adj,) 
King's-hood, a certain part ot the entrails of 

an ox, fic. 
Kintra, country. 
Kintra Cooser, country stallion. 
Kirn, the harvest supper ; a churn. 
Kirsen, to christen, to baptize. 
Kist, a chest ; a shop counter. 
Kitchen, any thing "that eats with bread; to 

serve for wnp, gravy, &c. 
Kitn, kindred. 

Kittle, to tickle ; ticklish ; lively, apt. 
Kiitlin, a young cat. 
Kiultle, to cuddle. 
I Kiuttlin, cuddling. 

Knaggie, like knags, or points of rocks. 
Knap, to strike smartly, a smart blow. 
Knappin- hammer, a hammer fur breaking 



Kyle, a district in Ayrshire. 

Kyte. the belly. 

Kythe, to discover ; to show one's self. 



Z.ADDIE, diminutive of lad. 

Laggen, the ang^e between the side and bot 

torn of a wooden dish. 
Laigh, low. 
Lairing, wading, ana sinking in snow, mud, 

&e. 
Laiih, loattu 
Liaiihfu') bashful, sheepislk 



' Lallans, the Scottish dialect of the English 

Lambie, diminutive of lamb. 
Lampii, a kind of shell-fish, a limpit. 

Lane, lone ; my lane, thy lane, &c. myself 

Lanely, lonely. 

Lang, long ; To think lang, to long, to weary 

Lap, did leap. 

Lave, the rest, the remainder, the others. 

Laverock, the lark. 

Lawin, shot, reckoning, bilL 

Lawlan, lowland. 

Lea'e, to leave. 

Leal, loyal, true, faithfuL 

Lea-rig, grassy ridge. 

Lear, (pronounced larej, learning. 

Lee-lang, livelong. 

Leesome, pleasant. 

Leeze-me, a phrase of congratulatory endear 

ment ; I am happy in thee, or proud o 

thee. 
Leister, a three-pronged dart for striking fisk. 
Leugh, did laugh. 
Leuk, a look , to look. 
Libbet, gelded. 
Lift, the sky. 

Lightly, sneeringly : to sneer at. 
Lilt, a ballad j a tune ; to ping. 
JLimmer, a kept mistress, a strumpet. 
Linip't, limped, hobbled. 
Link, to trip along. 
Linkin, tripping. 
Lino, a waterfall ; a precipice. 
Lint, flax ; Lint i' the bell, flax in flow 
Lintie. Lintwbite, a linnet. 
Lintwhite, white as flax; flaxen. 
Loan, or loanin, the place of milking. 
Loof, the palm of the hand. 
Loot, did let. 
Looves, plural of loof. 
Loun, a lellow, a ragamuffin ; a woman of 

Loup, jump, leap. 

Lowe, a flame. 

Lowin, flaming. 

Lowrie, abbreviation of Lawrence. 

Lowee, to loose. 

Lows'd, loosed. 

Lug, the ear ; a handle. 

Lugget, having a handle. 

Luggie, a small wooden dish with a handle, 

Luiii, the chimney. 

Lunch, a large piece of cheese, flesh, &c 

Lunt, a column of smoke, to smoke, 

Luntiu, smoking. 

Lyarti of a mixed colour, grey. 



MAE, more. 
Mair, more. 
i!klaist, most, almost. 
Maistly, mostly. 
Mak, to make. 
Makin, making. 
Mailen, a farm. 
Mallie, Molly. 
Mang, among. 

Manse, the paiscnage house* where the minif*' 
icr iives. 



BURMS.— GLOSSAfiY. 



Mai 



!ei,ait 



Wark, marks. {Dua and several other nonns 
which in Engiisli require aa s, to form the 
plural, are ia Scotiisb, like the words sheep. 
deer> the same in both numbers.) 

Marled, variegated ; spotted. 

Mar's year, the jear 1715. 

Mashlam, Meslin, mixed corn. 

Mask, to mash, as malt, &c. 

Maskin-pat, a tea-pot. 

Maud, Maad, a plaid worn bj shepherds, &c. 

Maukin. a hare. 

MauD, must. 

Mavis, the thrush* 

Mawin, mowing. 

Meikie', flleickfe, much. 

JVleiancholious, mournful. 

Welder, corn, or gram of anj kind, sent fo 

the mill to be ground. 
Mell, to meddle. Also a mallet for poanding 

barley in a slone trough. 
Melvie, to soil with meal. 
Men', to mend. 

Meose, good manners, decorum. 
Menseless, ill-bred, rude, impudent. 
Messin, a small dog. 
Midden, a dunghiil. 
Midden-hole, a gutter at the bottom of a dunff' 

hill. 
Mim, prim, affectedly meek. 
Mill', mind; resemblance. 
Wind't, mind it; reso.ved, intending. 
M nnie, mother, uam. 
Mirk, Wirkesl, d .rk, darkest- 
Wisca', to abuse, to call names. 
Misca'd, abused. 

Mjslear'd, mischievous, unmannerly 
Wisieuk, mistook. 
Mither, a inotber. 
MiXiie-maxtie, confusedly mixed. 
Moislify, to moisten. 
Mony, or Monie, many. 
Mools, dust, earth, the earth of the grave ; To 

rake i' the mools ; to lay in the dust. 
Moo I, to nibble as a she.ep. 
Moorlan', of or belong-ing (o moors. 
Morn, the next day, to>uiorrow. 
Mou, the mouth. 
Woudiwort, a mole. 
Mousie, diiiunutive of mouse. 
Muckle, or iVJickle, great, big, much. 

Wuslin-kail, broth, composed simply of water, 

shelled barley, and greens. 
Mutchkin, an English pinu 
Mysel, myself. 



NA, no, not, nor. 

Nae, no, not any. 

Naethiug, or Naithing, nothing. 

Naig, a horse. 

Nappy, 



Nappy, ale ; to be tips' 
Negleckit, neglected. 
Neuk, a nook, 
Neist, next- 
Nieve, the fist. 
Nievefu*, fasndfuL 



Niffer, an exchange; to exchange, to barter. 

Wiger, a negro. 

Nine-tailed-cat, a hacgman's whip. 

Nit, a nut. 

Ntjrland, of or belonging to the north. 

Notic't, noticad. 

Nowte, black cattle. 

O 

O', of. 

Ochils, name of mountains. 

haith, O faith! au oath. 

Ony, or Onie, any. 

Or, is often used for ere, before. 

Ora, or Orra, supernumerary, that can be 

spared, 
O't.ofit. 

Ourie, shivering ; drooping. 
Oursel, or Oursels, ourselves. 
Outlers, cattle not housed. 
Owre, over ; too. 
Owre-hip, a way of fetching a blow with the 

hammer over the ai'm. 



PACK, intimate, familiar; twelre elone of 

Painch, paunch. 
Paitrick, a partridge- 
Pang, to cram. 
Parle, speech. 
Parritch, oatmeal pudding, a wcll-knowa 

Scottish dish. 
Pat, did put ; a pot. 
Pattle, or Petile, a plough-staff. 
Paughty, proud, haughty. 
Pauky, or Pawkie, cunning, sly. 
Pay't, paid ; beat. 
Pech, to fetch the breath short, as in an asih* 

Pechan, the crop, the stomaoh. 
Peelin, peeling, the rind of fruit. 
Pet, a domesticated sheep, &c. 
Pettle, to cherish ; a plough-staff. 
Philibegs, short petticoats worn bj the High* 

landmen. 
Phraise, fair speeches, flattery j to flatter. 
Phraisin, flattery. 
Pibroch, Highland war music adapted to the 

bagpipe. 
Pickle, a small quantify. 
Pine, pain, uneasiness. 
Pit, to put. 

Placad, public proclamation. 
Plack, an old Scottish coin, the third part of a 

Scottish penny, twelve of which make an 

English penny. 
Plackless, pennyless, without money, 
Plalie, diminutive of plate. 
Plew, or Pleugh, a plough. 
Pliskie, a trick. 
Poind, to seize cattle or goods fat rent, as IM 

laws of Scotland allow. 
Poortith, poverty. 
Pou, 10 pull. 
Pouk, to pluck. 
Ponssie, a hare, or cat. 
Pout, a poul:, a chick. 
Pou't, did pull. 
Fow, the head, the EkuU. 



BURNS— GLOSSARY. 



3J3 



Fownie, a little horse. 
Powiher, or pouther, powder. 
Powlherj, like powder. 
Preen, a pin- 
Prent, to print; print. 

Prie'd, tacted. 

Prief, proof. 

Pri?, to cheapen ; to dispute. 

Prig^in, cheapening. 

Pnnisie, demure, precise. 

Propone, to laj down, »,o propose. 

Provo-9s, provosts. 

Puddock-siool, a mushroom, fungus. 

Puud, pound ; pounds. 

Pjle,— a pyle o' caff, a single grain of chaff. 



Roose, to praise, to commend. 

Rousty, rusty. 

Roun*, round, in the circle of neighbourhocd. 

Roapet, hoarse, as with a eold. 

Routhie, plentiful. 

Row, to roll, to wrap, 

Row't, rolled, wrapped. 

Rowte, 10 low, to bellow. 

Rowih, or Routh, plenty. 

Rowtin, lowing. 

Kozet, rosin. 

g, a cudgel. 
Runkled, wrinkled. 

t, the stem of colewort or cabbage. 
Rntb, a woman's name; the book so called 

sorrow. 
Rjke, to reach. 



QUAT, to qnit. 
Qaak, to quake. 
Quey, a cow from one to two years old. 



Rair. 

Raize, to madden, to inflame. 

Ram-frezl'd, fatigued ; overspread. 

Ram-stam, thoughtless, forward. 

Riiploch, properly a coarse cloth ; but used 
as an adnoun for coarse. 

Rarely, excellently, very well. 

Rush, a rush; ra:sh-buss, a bush of rushes. 

Ration, a rat. 

Raucle, rash ; stout ; fearless. 

Ranght, reached. 

Raw, a row. 

Rax, to siretch. 

Ream, cream; to cream. 

Ueara.ng, brimful, frothing. 

Reave, rove. 

Reck, to heed. 

Rede, counsel ; to counsel. 

Red-wat-shod, walking in blood over the shoe- 
tops. 

Red-wud, stark mad. 

Hee, haif drunk, fuddled. 

Reek, smoke, 

Reekin, smoking. 

Reekii, smoked; sniflky. 

Remead, remedy. 

Requite, requited. 

Rest, to stand restive. 

Kestit, stood restive ; stnnled; withered. 

Reetricked, restricted. 

Hew, to reppnt, to compassionate. 

Rief. Reef, plenty. 

Rief randies, sturdy beggars. 

Rig, a ridge. 

Riswiddie, rigwoodie, the rope or chain that 
crosses the saddle of a horse to support the 
spokes of a cart ; spare, withered, sapless. 

Rin, to run. to melt ; Rinnin, running. 

Rink, the course of the stoues ; a term in curl- 
ing on ice. 

Rip, a handful of unthreshed corn. 

R skit, made a noise like the tearing of roots. 

Rockin, spinning on the rock, or distaff. 

Rood, stands likewise for ihe plural roods, 

Kou«, a shred, a border or selvage. 



SAE, so. 
Saft, soft. 

I serre ; a sore. 
Sairly, or Sairlie, sorely. 
Sair't, served. 
Sark, a shirt ; a shift. 
Sarkit, provided in shirts. 
Saugh, the willow. 
Sanl, souL 
SaomoDt, salmon. 
Saunt, a saint. 
Saut,sa1t,(aJj.) salt. 
''--, to sow. 

Sax, six. 

Scalih, to damage, to injure ; injury. 
Sear, a cliff. 
Scaud, to scald. 
Scauld, to scold. 
Scaur, apt to be scared. 
Scawl, a scold ; a termagant. 
Scon, a cake of bread. 
Sconner, a loathing ; to loathe. 
Scraich, to scream as a hen, partridge, Sic 
Screed, to tear ; a rent. 
Scrieve, to glide swiftly along. 
Scrievin, gSeesomely ; swiftly. 
Scrimp, to scant. 
Scrimpet, did scant ; scanty. 
See'd, did see. 
Seizin, seizing. 

Sel. self; a body's sel, oue's self alone. 
Sell't, did sell. 
Sen', to send. 

Sen't, I, &e. sent, or did send it ; send it. 
Servan', servant. 

Settlin, settling ; to get a settlin, to be frighu 
edii ■ ■ 



quie 



Sets, seta off, goes away. 

chled, distorted ; shapeless. 

Shaird, a shred, a shard. 

Shangan, a stick cleft at one end for putting 
the tail of a dog, jic. into, by way of mis- 
chief, or to frighten him away. 

Shaver, a humorous wag ; a barber. 

Shaw, to sbow ; a small wood in a hollow. 

Sheen, bright, shining. 

Sheep-shank; to think one's self nae aherp, 

shank, to be conceited, 
iherra-moor, Shenff-moor, the famous balt.v 
fouch'. in the rebellion. A. U. 1715. 

Sheugh, a ditch, a treuch, a sluioe. 



880 



BURNS.— GLOSSARY. 



Bhiel. a shed. 

Su.U. shrilL 

i>bog, a sbock ; a posh off at one gida. 

hhool, a saorel. 

Sqoou, shces. 

Shore, to offer) to ehreaten. 

bhor'd, oflenxL 

Shouther, the sbonlder. 

Sbtire, did shear, shorei 

&>c, ^ucb. 

Sicker, sore, steady. 

Sioeiios, sidelong, slanting. 

Siller, silver; money. 

Simmer, summer. 

Skaith. see Scailh. 

Stelluia, a wortbless fellow. 

Skelp, 10 strike, to slap ; to walk witfi a smart 

tripping siep ; a smart stroke. 
Skelp :e-l:mmer, a reproacbfnl term in female 

seoldiug. 
Skelpin, stepping, walking. 
Skiegi,, or >keigb, proud, nice, higbmetiled. 
Skir.klin, a small portion. 
Skirl, 10 shriek, to cry shrilly. 
Skiriin?, shrieking, crying. 
Skiri't. shrieked. 
£klent, slant; to ran aslant, to deviate from 

truth. 
Sklented, ran, or bit, in an oblique direciion. 
Sk^uib, freedom to converse witbont 

range, scope, 
Skriegii, a scream ; to scream. 
Sk_iria. shining ; making a great show. 
Skvte, force, very forcible motion. 
Slae, a sloe. 
Slade, d d slide. 

Siap. a gate ; a breach in a fence. 
Slaver, saliva; to emit saliva. 
Siaw, slow. 

Siee. sl» ; sleest, sliest. 
Sleekii,' sleek; siy. 
Sliadery, slippery. 
Siype, 10 fall over, as a wet furrow from the 

plough. 
Sijpei, (elU 
Sma', small. 



eeent or sntiff, as a dog, &o> 
icemed, snuffed, 
ving swee:, engaging looks ; lucky* 



' Snowk, t 
Suowk.t, * 
Sonsie, ha^ 

siom-'t 

Sooth, truth, a petty oa'h. 

Sougb, a heavjf sigh, a sound dying on the eu, , 

Souple, flexible ; swift. j 

Souter, a shoemaker. B I 

Sowenr, a dish made of oatmeal ; the seeds ol V I 

^ oatmeal soured, &C. flummery. J ^ 

Sowp, a spoonful, a small quantity of any 



Sinoor'd, smotnered. 

Srnoutie, smutty, obscene, ugly. 

Smytne, a numerous collection of small indi- 
viduals. 

Siiapper, to stumble, a stumble, 

Snasb, abuse, Billingsgate. 

Snan, snow ; to snow. 

Snuw-troo, melted snow. 

Snawie, snowy. 

Siirck, Snick, the latch of a door. 

Sued, to iop, to cut off. 

Sneeshin, snuff. 

Sueesbin-m.ll, a snuff-box. 

Sneck-orawing, trick- contriving, crafty. 

Siiei!, bitter, biting. 

%uirtle, to laugh restrainedly. 

Snood, a ribbon for binding the hair. 

Suooi, one whoss spirit is broken with oppres- 
i-ive slavery ; to submit tamely j to sneak. 

Sooove, to go smoothly and constantly ; to 

ueak. 



thing liquid. 
Sowth, to try over a tune with a low whisUe. 
Sowtber, solder ; to solder, to cement. 
Spae, to prophesy, to divine. 
Spaul, a limb. 

Spairge, to dash, to soil, as with mire. 
Spaviet, having the spavin, 
Spean, Spane, to wean. 
Sptat, or Spate, a sweeping torrent, after raia 

or thaw. 
Speel, to climb. 
Spence, the country parlour. 
S|)ier, to ask, to inquire. 
Spier't, inquired. 
Splatter, a splutter, to splatter. 
Spleugban, a tobacco-pouch. 
Spiore, a frolic ; a noise, riot. 
Sprackie, sprachle, to clamber. 
Sprattle, to scramble. 
Spreckled, spotted, speckled. 
Spring, a qu ck air in music ; a Scottish reel. 
Sprit, a toiigh-rooted plants something Uks 

Sprittie, full of spirits. 

Spunk, fire, mettle ; wit. 

Spunkie, meitlesome, fiery; will-o'wisp, ot 

ignis fainus. 
Spurile, a stick, used in making oatmeal pud- 

ding or porridge. 
Squad, a crew, a party. 
Squatter, to flutter in water, as a wild duck, 
Squattle, to sprawL 

Squeel, a scream, a screech ; to scream. 
Stacher, to stagger. 
Stack, a rick of corn, hay, &c. 
Staggie, the dimiuutive of stag. 
Sfalwart, strong, stout. 
Stan, to stand ; Stau't, did stand. 
Stane, stone. 

Stang, an acute pain ; a twinge ; to sting. 
Stank, did stink ; a pool of standing waUr. 
Stap, Slop. 
Stark, stout. 

S:art]e, to run as cattle stung by the gad-fly 
a blockhead ; half-witted. 
steal ; to surfeit. 
Stech, to cram the beily. 



molest ; to stir. 
Steeve, firm, compacted. 
Siell, a stiU. 
Sten, to rear as a horse, 
't, reared. 

:s, tribute ; dues of any kind. 
Stey, steep ; Steyest, steepest. 
Stibble, stubble; Stibble-rig, the reapsr te 

harvest who takes the lead. 
Stick an' stow, totally, altogether. 
SfaM a erotch • to halt, to limp. 



II 



fURNS.— GLOSSARY. 



3tl 



Btimpart, the eignth part of a Winchester 

bugbel. 
Stirk, a cow oi bullock a year oid. 
Btock, a plant or rout of colewort, cabbage, 

&C. 

Stockin, a Btockiog; Throning the stockin, 
when the bride and bridegroom are put into 
bed, and the candle oui> the former throws 
a stocking at random among the company, 
and the person whom it strikes is the next 
that will be married. 

Stoiter, to stagger, to stammer. 
I Stooked, made up in shocks as com. 

Stoor, hjunding UolloWt strong, and hoarse. 
j Stct, an ox, 

Stoup, or Stowp, a kind of jug or dish with a 

Stonre, dust, more particularly dast in motion. 

Stowlins, by steaitti 

Stown, stolen. 

Stoyte, to stumble. 

Strack, did strike. 

Strae, straw ; to die a fair sirae death, to die 

A natural death. 
Straik, did fitrike. 
Straikit, stroked. 
Strappin, tall and handsome. 
Siraught, straight, to straightens 
Streek, stretched, tight; to stretch* 
Striddle, to straddle. 
Btroan, to spout, to piss. 
Studdie, a stithy. 
Stnmpie, diminutive of stump. 
Strunt, spirituous liquor of any kind ; to walk 

sturdily ; huff, bultenness. 
Stuff, corn or pulse of any kind. 
Stnrt, trouble ; to molest. 
Stnrtin, frighted. 
Sucker, sugar. 
Bud, ebonld. 
Sugb, the coatmned rnshing noise of wind or 

Southron, southern $ an old name for the 

English nation. 
Swaird, sward. 
Swall'd, swelled. 
Swank, stately, jolly. 
Swankie, or swanker, a tight strapping young 

fellow or girl. 
Swap, an exchange ; to barter. 
Swarf, to swoon ; a swoon. 
Swat, did sweat 
Swatch, a sample. 
Swats, drink; good ale. 
Swcaten, sweating. 
Sweer, lazy, averse; dead-aweer, extremely 

averse. 
Swoor, swore, did swear. 
Swinge, to beat ; to whip. 
Swirl, acurye; an eddying blast, or pool; a 

knot ia wood. 
Swirlie, knaggie, full of knots. 
Swith, get away. 
Swither, to hesitate in choice; an irresolute 

wavering in choice. 
Syne, since, ago ; then. 



TACKETS, a kind of nails for driving Into 

the heels of shoes. 
Tae, a toe; thiee-tae'd, having three j»rongi. 



Tairge, a target. 

Tok, to take ; takin, Uking. 

Tamtallan, the name of a mountain. 

Tangle, a sea-weed. 

Tap, the top. 

Tapetless, heedless, fooHj/ 

Tarrow, to murmur at one's allowance. 

Tarrow't, murmured. 

Tarry-breeks, a sailor 

Tauld, or tald, told. 

Taupie, a foolish, thoughtless young oerson. 

Tauted, or Tautie, matted to'getbr spokea 

of hair or wooL 
Tawie, that allows itself peaceaoly to be 

handled ; spoken of a horse, cow, Jkc 
Teat, a small quantity. 
Teen, to provoke ; provocation. 
Tedding, spreading after the mower. 
Ten-Lours bite, a slight feed to the bor 

while in the yoke, in the forenoon. 
Tent, a field-pulpit; heed, caution; to 

heed ; to tend or herd cattle. 
Tentie, heedful, cautions. 
Tentless, heedless. 
Teugh, tough. 
Thack, thatch; Tbaclc an' rape, clothioff 

necessaries. 
Thae, these. 

Tbairms, small guts ; fiddle-stringi* 
Thankit, thanked. 
Tbeekit, thatched. 
Thegither, together. 
Tbemsel, themselves. 
Thick, intimate, famib'ar. 
Thieveless, cold, dry, spited ; tpokaa cf • 

person's demeanour. 
Thir. these. 
Thirl, thrilL 

Thirled, thrilled, vibrated. 
Thole, to suffer, to endure. 
Thowe, a thaw ; to thaw. 
Thowless, slack, lazy. 
Thrang, throng ; a crowd. 
Thrapple, throat, windpipe. 
Thrave, twenty -four sheaves or two ihoeka ol 

corn ; a considerable number. 
Thraw, to sprain, to twist ; to contradict. 
Thrawo, sprained, twisted; contradicted. 
Threap, to maintain by dint of aasertiso. 
Threshin, thrashing. 
Thretteen, thirUen. 
Thristle, thistle. 

Through, to go on with ; to make out. 
Throuthor, pell-mell, confusedly. 
Thud, to make a loud intermittent nrn'sa^ 
Thumpit, thumped. 
Thysel, thyselt 
Till't, to it. 
Timmer, timber. 
Tine, to lose ; Tint, lost. 
Tinkler, a tinker. 
Tint the gate, lost the way. 
Tip, a ram. 
Tippence, twopence. 
Tirl, to make a slight noiM ; tc 
Tirlin, uncovering, 
Tither, the other. 
Tittle, to whisper. 
Tittlin, whispering. 
Tocher, marriage portion. 
Tod, a fox. 
Toddls, to toller, like the walk of a 



822 



£UEN8.— GLOSSARY. 



Toddlio* tottering. 

Toom, cmpiy, to raptj* 

Toop, A ram. 

Toan, a hamlet ; s fann-houB«. 

Tout, the blast of * born or trumpet ;'(o blow 
a horo, && 

T*w, a rope. 

Towmond, a twelremonthi 

Towzie, rongh, sfaagfj. 

Toy, a very old fashion of female head-dress. 

Toyte, to toiler like old age. 

Transmogrified^ tranimigrated, metunorphos- 
ed. 

Trashtrle, (rasa. 

T^ewBi trowsers. 

Trickle, full of trick*. 

Trig, spruce, neat. 

Trimly, ezeellently. 

Trow, to belieT*. 

Trowth, truth, a patty oath. _ 

Tryste, an appointment ; a fair. 

Tryated, appointed ; To tryste, to make an ap- 
pointment. 

Try't, tried. 

Tug, raw hide, of which in old times plon^h. 
traces were frequently made. 

Tulzie, a quarrel ; to quarrel, to fight. 

Twa, two. 

Twa-three, a few. 

Twad, it would. 

Twal, twelve; Twal-pennie worib, n small 
quantity, a penny-worth. N. B. One penny 
English is ISd. Scotch:^ 

Twin, to paru 

Tyke, a dog. 



U 

IJNCO, Strang*, nueonth ; very, very great, 

prodigious. 
Uneos, newt. 
ITnkennM, unknown. 
Unsicker, unsure, unsteady. 
Unskaith'd, undamaged, unhurt. 
Unweeting, unwittingly, nnkBowmgly. 
Upo', upon. 
Urchin^ a hedgehog. 



VAP'RIN, vapouring. 

Vera, very. 

Virl, a ring round a colamn, &«. 

Vittle. corn of all kinds, food. 

W 

WA'wall; Wa's, walli. 

Wabster, a weaver. 

Wad, would; to bet; a b«t, a pledga. 

Wadna, wonld not. 

Wae,wo; sorrowful. 

Waef»', woful, sorrowful, walling. 

Waeincka ! or waes me ! alas I O the pity. 

Waft, the cross thread that goes from the 

shuttle through the web ; woof. 
Wair, to lay out, to expend. 
Wale, choice; to choose. 
V.'aled, chose, chosen. 
Walie, ample, large, Jolly (alio an loteijectlon 



n 



of distress. 
Wamcb the belly. 



Wacchancie, unlucky, 
Wanrestf i', «iestleBS. 
Wark, work. 

Wark-lume, a tool to woilc with. 
Warl. or Warld, world. 
Warlock, a wizard. 

Warlyt worldly, eager on amassing wetlth. 
Warran^ a warrant j to warrant. 
Warsi, worst. 

Warstl'd, or Warsl'd, wrestlil. 
Wastrie, prodigality. 
Wet, wet ; I wai, I wot, I know. 
Water-brose, brose made of meal and waM 
simply, without the addition of milk, butter, 
tie. 
Wattle, a twig, a wand. 
Wauble. to swing, to reel. 
Waught, a draught. 
Waukit, thickened as fullers do cloth. 
Waukrife, not apt to sleep, 
Waur, worse ; to worst. 
Waur't, worsted. 
Wean, or Weanie, a child. 
Wearie, or Weary; many a weary body, 

many a different person. 
Weason, weasand. 

Weaving the slocking. See Stocking. 
Wee, little ; Wee things, little ones ; Wee bit, 

a small matter. 
Weel, well; Weelfare, welfare. 
Weet, rain, wetness. 
Weird, fate. 
We'se, we shall. 
Wha, who. 
Whaizle, to wheeze. 
Whalpit, whelped. 
Whang, a leathern string ; a piKe of eheesa 

bread, && to givd the strappado. 
Whare, where ; Whare'er, wherever. 
Wheep, to fly nimbly, jerk; penoy-wheep 

small beer. 
Whase, whose. 
Whatreck, nevertheless. 
Whid, the motion of a hare, maning but nv 

frighted ; a lie. 
Whiddin, running as a hare or cony. 
Whigmeleeries, whims, fancies, erotcbets. 
Whingin, crying, complaining, fretting. 
Whirligigums, useless oroamenit, trifling ap 

pendages. 
Whissle, a whisUo ; to whistle. 
Whisht, silence ; to hold one's Whisht, to 

silent. 
Whisk, to sweep, to lash* 
Whiskit, lashed. 

Whitter, a hearty draught of liquoii 
AVLun-stane, a whin-stone. 
NVhyles, whiles^ sometimes. 
Wi', with. 
Wicht, Wight, powerful, strong; inTentive 

of a superin genius. 
Wick, to strike a stone in an oblique direetiov 

a term in curling. 
Wicker, willow (the smaller sort). 
Wiel, a small whirlpool. 
Wifie, a diminutive or endsaring term f» 

wife. 
Wilyart, bashful and reserved; avoiding 

society or appearing awkward in it» wildt 

strange, timid. 
Wimple, to meaaders 



BURNS—GLOSSARY. 



Wimpl't, meandered. 

Wiuplin, waving, meandering. 

Win, to Win, to winnow. 

WLn't, windad as a bottom of yiro. 

W»*, wind ; Win'e, winds. 

Winna, will not. 

Winnock, a window. 

Winsome, hearty, vaunted, gay. 

Wintle, a staggering motion; to 8tagger> to 

reel. 
Winze, an oath 
Wiss, to wish. 
Witboutten, withoxU 
Wizen'd, hide-bound, dried, ghrunk. 
Wonner, a wonder } a contemptuoDS appclla* 

Wons, dwells. 

Woo', wooL 

Woo, to court, to make love to. 

Woodie, a rope, more properly one made of 

withes or willows. 
Wooer-bab, the garter knotted below the knee 

with a eoaple of loops. 
Wordy, worthy. 
Worsei, worsted. 

Wow, an exclamation of pleasure or wonder. 
Wrack, to teaze, to vex. 
Wraith, a spirit, or ghost ; an apparition ex. 

actly like a living person, whose appearance 

is said to forbode the persoa'i approaohiog 



Wrang, wrong ; to wrouff. 
Wreath, a drifted heap of M 
Wud, mad, distracted. 
W luible, a. wimbeh 
Wjle, to>i6fuile. 
Wyliecoat, a flantiiS test. 
Wyte, blame; to blame. 



YAD, an old mare ; a worn out borit. 

Ye } this pronoun is frequently used for thoa> 

Yearns, longs much. 

Yearlings, born in the same year, coevals. 

Year is used both for singular and plural yeara. 

Yearn, earn, an eagle, an osprey. 

Yell, barren, that gives no milk. 

Yerk, to lash, to jerk. 

Yerkit, jerked, lashed. 

Yestreen, yesternight. 

Yett, a gate, snch as is nsnally at tbe eatraoM 

into a farm-yard or field. 
Yill, ale. 
Yird, earth. 
Yokin, yoking ; a boat. 
Yont, beyond. 
Yonrsel, yonr8eI& 
Yowe, a ewe. 
Yowie, diminativa of jew«w 



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